


The thing on the other side of the fine line to hate

by isadora



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:29:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isadora/pseuds/isadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of Quinn and Carrie. Not really (at all?) canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Watching Carrie at work is one of Quinn’s pleasures in life. It’s not just the aesthetic element, although she’s hardly a pain to look at, but the single-minded intensity and focus on whatever she’s doing; whether it’s hunting down terrorists, filing reports or even doing the crossword. He wonders whether that intensity translates into any other aspects of her life; fleetingly imagines her above him, transfixing him with that stare as she sinks down onto him before he reminds himself of professionalism and responsibility and moves the thought to a recess of his brain where he can - will - explore it later.

It’s not often he can get the jump on her though; she hasn’t reacted to his presence which means she’s either lost in her own world or ignoring him deliberately. Either way, he has no intention of moving. It’s peaceful in the office, only a few stragglers still around this late, and he has nothing else to be doing. 

For a moment he indulges himself with the idea of sneaking up on her just to see her jump, see the wild animal flash in her eyes that spikes through his blood, but he resists. There’s something about her that hooks him; he can’t tell whether it’s her personality or her illness or maybe a combination of the two, but from their first interaction and her subsequent loathing of him he’s not figured out to back out from it.

He can’t tell if he wants to hit her or hold her; whether he wants to fuck her until she can’t stand or cherish her. He can’t tell if all they’re mutually exclusive feelings; he suspects not but that touches on rather darker territory than he’s in for tonight.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she asks without looking up; so she was ignoring him then. Comforting; she puts herself in enough risky situations without the worry of her senses being dulled.

He steps inside silently, standing over her left shoulder. 90% of black-ops soldier scans over the documents she’s working on, while 10% red blooded male reminds him that she’s wearing a low top and push-up bra.

“Everyone’s gone home” he comments, and that makes her look up in surprise.

“I thought it was earlier.”

“It’s pretty late. You going to head soon?”

She surveys the carnage that is her desk, scrubs her fingers through her hair and shakes her head.

“Need help?”  
 A bitter laugh escapes her at that and he can’t help but join in. He isn’t expecting her to agree but somehow she does; whether through boredom or sleep deprivation or maybe just the unusual sensation of desiring company. Coffee-fuelled, they work through the night, and it’s not until the early hours of the morning that she suggests taking a break.

He draws out a hipflask and she swigs without a second glance. He’s momentarily impressed she doesn’t flinch at the strength of the liquor, and takes a hit himself.

“So why are you here so late?” she asks, eyes sliding over to him.

He toys with a few answers, the truth among them, before speaking, which is stupid because now whatever he says she will take as a lie or evasive answer.

“I had a late meeting, thought I’d wander around and see if anyone was still here.”

She accepts it, swigs again from his hipflask and makes a pleased sigh.

“Thanks”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“I don’t really sleep much any more.”

He hums in agreement, surprised that she’s decided to open with that, not quite sure how to respond without pressurising her.

Even the silence is too much; he can feel her shoulders hunch slightly and she clambers to her feet with a wry smile.

“Thanks...again.”

He unfolds from his position on the floor, invading her personal space just a little as he snaffles the hip flask back with a grin.

“Your turn to supply refreshments next time”

*******


	2. 2

“You know the really funny thing?”

They’re facing each other across a desk, body language angrily mirrored. A vein is popping in Quinn’s forehead and Carrie has to fight with herself not to punch him in his arrogant face.

“Sure, Quinn, tell me what’s so funny”

He leans in so their noses are almost touching, his expression a mockery of a smile

“You’ve spent so long trying to be brave, and you’re the most scared little girl I’ve ever met.”

She can’t help it; she barks out a laugh. Nothing scares her; she has a frankly cavalier attitude to her own safety and if Quinn doesn’t know that then he’s even more deluded than she originally thought.

“Is that all you’ve got? Scared? You’re going to have to push harder than that if you want a reaction”

His lip curved sharply.  
“Yes. And I’m right. You’re fucking terrified. But not of danger, not of terrorists or even death, Carrie. You’re scared of rejection. You put on this facade of bravery and you keep everyone at arm’s length and you treat the people who care about you like shit because you’re scared you’ll fuck them up. You’re so scared that you’ll let someone show you kindness and they’ll take it away that you fuck around with known terrorists because they’re a safer bet. You’re scared if you show any warmth or kindness it will be rejected, and if you buy into the idea of trust and honesty you’ll be betrayed so you don’t even bother. You are a scared little girl and you need to grow the fuck up.”

The silence expanded between them, oppressive and heavy. Carrie forced herself to breathe easily, forced herself to bite back the tears that were welling up, drew a blanket over the hurt feeling blossoming. She felt cut to the quick, shocked and shaky. She felt angry that without ever wanting him to see it, he had reached inside, grabbed her biggest fear and held it up to her face where she couldn’t back away. 

“Anything else?” she asked evenly, knuckles white against the mahogany desk.

Quinn stared back impassively.

“Yes,” he said flatly, “one more thing. Take some fucking time out. Before you make a really big mistake and you don’t have me and Saul here to clear it up for you.”

“Well,” she said with a sarcastic tip of her head, “I’m glad we had this chat. Thanks for all the advice. Go fuck yourself”

And with a cheery wave she turned on her heel and marched out. Peter sighed, massaging a temple with his forefinger before he dropped down in the chair.

He sat there, lamplit, lost in his own thoughts and didn’t move until the sun rose the next day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which alcohol happens and Quinn leaves Carrie speechless

He’s drunk by the time she turns up in the bar; it’s been a bad day (and a bad year before that) and the bartender hasn’t even attempted conversation, simply filling up his scotch with a semi-disapproving look.

He feels her sit down next to him but doesn’t bother looking up.

“If you’re waiting for an apology, you can go wait somewhere else” he says flatly, swirling his drink. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her gesture to the bartender and another glass is set down in front of her.  
“I’m not expecting an apology” she whispers, although her voice is steady, “and I’m not going to give one. But we still have to work together, even if you think I’m a scared little girl and I think you’re an emotionally constipated fuckwit.”

That draws a twitch of a smile out of him at least and he tips his glass in a mockery of a toast. In her defence she doesn’t ask what’s happened to have him wasted before 5pm on a weeknight; then again he would bet a year’s salary she’d been in the same position within the last week.

She drinks silently next to him; it infuriates him that he is transfixed by her even without her eyes on him or his on her; he knows he could make the play, take her home, carve their respective notches in bedposts, but somehow it isn’t what he wants and he can’t make sense of that so he stops trying.

They sit, wordless but companiable, until the bar closes and then they walk too-carefully out to the car park. Quinn jams his hands in his pockets and tips his head back, staring up at the stars. They don’t spin, so he must have sobered up at some point. Beside him, Carrie’s breath fogs and mists in the cool air.

She turns to face him and lays a hand on his wrist; her fingers are so cold they almost burn, and he knows he would only have to lean in an inch for her to close the distance; sex is her currency, her emotion and her bargaining chip. Sex is her winning and he’s not willing to compromise himself.

“No, Carrie,” he breathes, and hurt flashes across her face for a microsecond before she shrugs it off. She raises a shoulder and goes to turn away, but he grasps her forearm before she can.

“When I fuck you,” he enunciates, and her pupils dilate immediately, “it will be me that you’re thinking of, and you will want it because you want me, not as a manipulation play. When I fuck you, I don’t want to have to think about how I’m enabling your self-destruction. Do you understand?”

She stares at him, utterly poleaxed. Hadn’t seen that one coming, clearly.

“What makes you think...”

He cuts her off, in control of the situation now.

“Call it a gut feeling, Carrie. A hunch. Call it optimism or delusion if you like.”

She laughs, backs away, shaking her head.

“You’re drunk, Quinn. Go home.”

He smiles placidly and zips his jacket.

“Night, Carrie.”

Her stunned gaze follows him away into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Carrie calls in sick the next day, and Quinn can’t get any information from Saul about where she is or what’s wrong. He could go to her house of course; he could tap her phone or hack her emails, but somehow it doesn’t feel right so he forces himself to be patient. Did he cross a line, really? Yes, his brain supplies; a significant line, but he doesn’t regret it. The breaks in her self control are kryptonite to him; her eyes flare and pop and something spikes in his blood, something that he would be a lot happier defining as lust but somehow feels more complex.

It takes two weeks later and he still hasn’t seen her; if it weren’t for Saul’s reassurances that she’s fine (and mild dismay as to why he keeps asking) he would have tracked her down by now. As it is he’s angry; with her for making him care and at himself for caring.

The knock at his door takes him by surprise; nobody knows his address so he’s half assuming it’s a salesperson or similar when he opens it. The sight of Carrie soaked to the skin is not one he’s expecting.

“Hey” she says, at least having the decency to look sheepish.

He raises an eyebrow and steps aside to let her in. The rain outside is torrential and he can see she’s soaked through; if he didn’t think it would earn him another gunshot wound he would appreciate the effect the rainwater has had on her shirt, but as it is he wordlessly digs out a bottle of rum and pours it into two tumblers. She accepts it with visibly shaking hands; hard to tell whether it’s the cold or emotion but he doesn’t comment.

He’s itching to know where she’s been; why she’s here; why she’s here now - but he’s also dealt with enough wildcards in his time to know how carefully he has to tread here.

“Sorry...for just barging in here”

He shakes his head and shrugs

“It’s fine”

“It’s raining pretty hard”

He lets her see him flicking his gaze up and down her body and tilts his head in acknowledgment, and she relaxes fractionally, looking out of the window as she perceives he isn’t going to interrogate her.

“You want to grab a shower?” he asks absently, moving piles of laundry off the sofa, “I’ve got an old tracksuit you can dry off in.”

He expects her to refuse but after a moment’s hesitation during which her teeth audibly chatter she nods and follows him towards the bathroom. He notices how she keeps her distance, eyes flicking around when she thinks he isn’t looking. He wonders if she’s off her meds again and wonders if he might like her better when she’s crazy. He wonders if that makes him an awful person and decides he doesn’t much care.

She hits the shower and carefully leaves the door a fraction ajar, a silent invitation that he notices and forces himself to ignore, instead heating up soup and defrosting some bread. He tries not to think about her in the shower; tries not to think what would happen if he pushed the door. Tries not to imagine how she looks in the steam with her head thrown back and water drops trailing the curve of her spine.

He jerks back to reality when he hears the shower turn off, and busies himself at the stove, fully aware he’s acting more like a mother hen than a black ops specialist. Carrie pads in and peers over

“Have you got any spare?”

He pretends to consider that and nods, and they sit on his sofa eating soup out of bowls in an oddly homely scene that belies the frazzled state she turned up in.

In the end it takes less time for her to start talking than he expected.

“You were right. About Brody.”

He angles his shoulders slightly towards her but keeps his eyes fixed ahead and his expression casual, hoping she’ll continue

“I...I thought about it a lot. I figured that I pinned my hopes on him because...it was so likely he wouldn’t come back that I had nothing to lose. It wouldn’t be my fault it all fucked up. You were right.”

He worries for a second that she’ll start crying but she seems more numb than that. They sit in silence for a few beats before she shifts fractionally and he knows he has to say something to keep the moment or she’ll get up and leave. The words won’t come though; she hesitates a fraction waiting for him to stop her before she unfolds and levers herself up.

“I shouldn’t have come here. It was intrusive and unprofessional...I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he’s up before he can stop himself, hand closing around her wrist, “we’re well beyond professionalism, Carrie. Seriously.”

She huffed a laugh through her nose and pulled her hand away but settled back on the sofa, and if her knee was touching his then neither of them would mention it.

“Don’t you think people like us are meant to be alone?” she asked casually, masking the desperation underlying the words. “Don’t you think it’s safer that way?”

He couldn’t answer for a long moment, considering and rejecting answers. What gave him the right to lecture Carrie on being scared of attachment when his entire life was built around that premise?

“I don’t think anything in our lives is safe” he said cautiously, “But I don’t think most humans are designed to be happy alone.”

She sat in silence for a while after that and Quinn lost himself in his thoughts. When he next looked around Carrie was asleep, her breathing deep and even. She’d visibly lost weight since he last saw her and something protective shifted inside him.

With a sigh, he moved the blanket from the back of the sofa to cover her and went to bed, knowing in the morning she would be gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things finally start moving…!

The game they play, in their day to day life, is a dangerous one and fatal if they spend too long thinking about what could happen. The game of espionage rarely ends in safe retirement; that’s why they do it. It’s why they don’t get involved, why they don’t trust, don’t get close to each other. You never know when your partner will be moved away, or wounded, out of action, when they might just disappear off the face of the earth.  
Peter knows this as well as anyone, but he still isn’t prepared for the day that his phone rings and Saul’s voice is gruff and broken on the end of the line.

“Carrie’s disappeared.”

The bottom falls out of his chest and for a split second he can’t breath, feels as though he’s been plunged headfirst into ice-cold water.

“Quinn...”

“How?”

Saul huffs out a breath; Peter can imagine him massaging his temples.

 

“She didn’t turn up today, she hasn’t been answering her phone, so I sent Virgil to haul her in...her house has been trashed, signs of a struggle and no Carrie.”

Quinn breathes out heavily through his nose, mind racing.

“Was she working on anything?”

“Not on the books”

He snorts; like that means anything.

“Want me to take a look around her place?”

****

He arrives at her house less than an hour later, stomach clenching in anticipation of what he might find. Signs of a struggle for sure; the place is a wreck, splintered furniture and smashed glass all over the place. Blood is splattered around more liberally than he would like; forensics will need to come in and deal with that, but he hopes it isn’t hers.

Would she have had the foresight to leave a trail? Something for him and Saul to follow?

He prowls the house for what feels like hours; no joy. Unusually for Carrie there are no papers out that might give him a lead; he can figure that she had been in bed when she was attacked, can see that whoever came for her took the route 1 approach of smashing through her kitchen window and clambering in, but that’s where the trail goes cold.

He retraces his steps, tries to piece together what happened, but he can’t focus beyond the rising panic and worst case scenarios. Anger surges; at himself for being weak, at her for making him care, for putting them both in danger. Fury at whoever has taken her. Still, he has a job to do; retribution can and will have to wait.

*****

After 5 days of searching, watching, surveilling, sneaking and waiting they are still no closer to finding her and the strain is showing on everyone. Quinn is fairly sure Saul hasn’t slept since she vanished; the office is quiet with everyone speaking in hushed tones and strewn with coffee cans and takeaway containers. It’s a testament to her as an operative that even those not scheduled to work have come in but they all know the longer they have to wait until they find her the worse the outcome is likely to be.

He is watching CCTV footage almost mindlessly, eyes screaming for rest, when he hears a shout from the other side of the room, people instantly rushing to the monitor.

“Where is she?”

“Not a clue. We’re calling the station now; look...”

Quinn leans over the monitor and watches in grainy footage as Carrie approaches the helpdesk, lists to one side, throws out a hand to save herself and collapses in a heap on the floor, members of the public leaping up in shock and crowding around. He can’t make out what happens next; they fastforward through the reel to see paramedics arrive and load her onto an ambulance, completely unmoving. 

What they don’t expect is for her to appear in the doorway moments later, pale and exhausted but still on her feet.

He wants to fly to her and either hold her or throttle her, but forces himself to lean back against the monitor, sagging in relief momentarily.

“I’m sorry” she croaks out, “I tried to call but I couldn’t get to a phone and then I figured it would just be easier for the ambulance to take me here...” she drifts off, looking around, “Where’s Saul? I need to debrief him, I need...” she sways on her feet again and this time Quinn does move, ducking under her arm to keep her upright and wrapping the other around her waist.

“You need medical attention” he says firmly, “Saul can wait.”

“No,” she pulls away, wild eyed, “No, it has to be now.”

As though sensing the commotion, Saul appears, grasping Carrie by the elbow.

“It’s done?” he asks, urgency colouring his tone into something unrecognisable as concern. Carrie seems to either not care or not notice; her face cracks from anxiety into a beam as she looks up at him.

“It’s done” she confirms, “but it got messy. We need to clean up, we need...”

Saul raises a hand to cut her off and shakes his head.

“We’ll get it sorted; you need to go home.”

“I can help, I’m fine...”

Something snaps in Quinn at that point and he slams his hand down so hard on the table that he will feel the sting for days.  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spits, squaring up to her, not even recognising her fractional step back, “this was a play? Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been, how many resources we wasted on getting you back?”

Saul moves between the two of them, both hands palm forward, conciliatory. Quinn doesn’t want conciliation; he wants to break something.

“It was outside of what you need to know Quinn,” and there’s a definite tone of warning in his voice, “and it certainly wasn’t meant to play out like this.”

“And what was the extraction plan? Since when has it been okay to leave your operatives with no fucking backup incase things go south?”

“Peter, you might want to consider removing yourself from this situation before you say something you really regret” growls Saul, “This how we work and if you don’t like it I’m sure your previous employers would happily find an opening for you.”

His fists are clenched, teeth grinding and he can barely breathe with the sheer fury of it, but when he looks down at Carrie and sees the fear in her eyes he forces himself to breathe out and relax his muscles one by one as he backs away from them, unable to break eye-contact.

“I apologise, Saul. That was out of line; I was just concerned. It won’t happen again.”

 

Saul shakes his head once to the side; somewhere between acceptance of the apology and wordless warning about what will happen if he does it again.

He slips out of the room, ignoring the whispers that hiss up as the door closes, and heads for the bathroom. In the mirror he looks nothing more or less than exhausted; not from lack of sleep but from the course his life has taken. A trail of bodies and regrets; he won’t let this be one of them. Different bosses in the past would have seen a bullet between his eyes for speaking up like that; Saul is gracious enough that he will forgive, although never forget.

As he splashes water on his face, the door clicks and before he’s even straightened up he feels hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm.

Carrie.

“You had my back today” she breathes, quickly, as though the words hurt her, “and I know it’s what you do but I still wanted to say thank you. Because even if I don’t seem like I appreciate it...you know...” she pauses; he can’t move, transfixed by the oddness of the situation, “it’s just that I’m not used to it. Having someone looking out for me.”

He forces himself to breathe out slowly, and then in for a few counts. Her grip on his shoulders has switched from comforting to vice-like and he realises how much this weakness is costing her.

“You should be” he says softly, looking up into the mirror to make eye contact again. She smiles at him; somewhere between disbelieving and indulgent, and then before he can even process it she raises herself onto tiptoe and presses an open mouth kiss to behind his ear, lingering for a fraction of a second before trailing her hand back down his arm and slipping out of the bathroom.

 

Well, fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be away for a few days so, first of all a huge thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, comment and leave kudos- I haven't written for years and appreciate the support so much.  
> I leave you with a long chapter but hopefully a fun one - I certainly enjoyed writing it.  
> Happy Holidays!
> 
> Any suggestions/prompts for future directions in this fic gratefully received :)

Their relationship softens after that incident; Carrie understands now why Quinn acts as he does and on some level is starting to accept his affections. It's slow progress; on occasion she'll back off, needing her own space so much she can barely look him in the eye but there are small concessions she makes. Once a week she allows him to bring her coffee and a croissant in the morning- any more often is met with a furrowed brow and a twist of the lips. Some Fridays she stops by his desk and asks if he wants to grab a drink and he never refuses. Those nights they carefully drink to within their limits, chat about inconsequential things and part with a smile. The relationship feels balance on a knife-edge; both too proud and stubborn to push further; but comfortable where it is. Quinn wonders sometimes if this is the most intimacy Carrie has ever developed with anyone. He wonders why the thought of becoming close to her doesn’t frighten or repulse him.

Carrie lies in bed sometimes and asks herself what she's doing letting him get close; closeness is weakness in this business, but she can't remember anyone having her back and caring as fiercely as he does, and she's selfish enough to take it despite her best intentions. She's stupid enough to start caring too- she can't deny that she's always been attracted to him in the 'bad news' way that has always worked for her so well in the past- but now she finds herself missing his company when he's not around, a nagging worry at the back of her mind when he's out doing whatever it is that they don't tell her, when he goes away for a week and comes back later with his lips thin and tense and his eyes shadowed. 

It's after one of those missions that she stumbles across him in the bar. Well, really she had been looking for him, but she would deny that until she was blue in the face if anyone was brave or stupid enough to ask. He’s been gone for six days, longer than usual, but she’d seen his car parked out front that morning and gone hunting. 

He either doesn't notice her or doesn't want to register her, because he continues staring blankly into his glass until she takes a seat next to him. He looks up then, and something in his face is utterly broken and bereft, so much so that she loses her breath in the intensity of it. 

"Peter," she breathes, "what happened to you?"

He knocks back the drink and smiles unpleasantly

"My job, Carrie. I wouldn't worry yourself about it."

The words sting, and she's reminded why getting close to anyone is a mistake. You open yourself up and you get hurt; it never ends differently. A large part of her wants to walk away, to extend the distance between them and pretend none of this has happened. 

The small part that reminds her of his protectiveness, his sheer bravery and intensity in shouting down Saul, keeps her sitting there and ordering her own drink. 

"I don't remember asking for your company" he says sourly, still staring down at his empty glass. She gestures the bartender to refill it and clinks her glass against his. 

"You had my back, and now I have yours. Even if you're being a complete arse"

"I don't need your help" he says sharply, "have you forgotten how we work?"

He means as operatives of course; alone. No ties, no risk. But she realises, and he probably does, that Carrie and Quinn don't work alone any more. 

"We work together" she says, and if there's a break in her voice he doesn't comment on it, and if there are multiple ways of interpreting that statement he doesn't comment on that either. He doesn't say anything; doesn't trust his voice or know what to say. His anger evaporates, leaving exhaustion in its wake, and he doesn’t want to fight any more. They sit in silence, reflective, until it's closing time. 

He pushes his stool back and wavers; he's been drinking most of the day and he's bone tired. This time it's Carrie who catches him, then staggers slightly under his weight with a surprised laugh. 

"Ok, enough for Peter" she says, draping his arm over her shoulder. He could probably walk just fine on his own but right now the physical contact feels like it might be the only thing holding him together. He couldn't drive anyway so he doesn't complain when she supports him over to her car and they drive back to hers. His exhaustion intensifies the closer they get, gnawing into his bones, and his eyes are slipping closed before he knows it. 

"Hey," she shakes his shoulder gently "just a couple more minutes of being awake, ok?"

He stretches, shoulders cracking pleasingly, and slowly unfolds from the car. Wordlessly they head in; she leads him upstairs and sits him down on her bed, kneeling down at his feet to unlace his shoes. He’s never seen this side to her; only with Brody, and he’s not convinced that wasn’t at least partly a play.

There's nothing sexual in her actions when she strips his shirt and jeans off and folds them neatly and his heart aches at the idea of being cared for like this. For the first time since he can remember, since maybe the birth of his son, his throat closes up and he leans back on the bed, turning away so she won't see his weakness. Somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness he thinks he can feel a thumb brush over his cheek, but he's too far gone to register it and sleep claims him. 

He wakes up in the morning feeling refreshed and oddly at peace. Carrie is sleeping next to him, curled up in a ball with her hair covering her face, and he wonders briefly about rolling over and wrapping his arms around her. He's itching to do it; maybe he would have if she hadn't opened her eyes at that moment, looked up and smiled at him with the most simple, genuine smile he'd seen on her face.   
“Morning” she sighs, only half awake, her voice husky.

His self control flees and his better judgement vanishes and he raises a hand to brush her hair out of her face, thumb skating over her cheek as she looks back at him wide eyed before he pulls her in and kisses her. It's tender and chaste; they fit together and relief floods through him when it's clear she isn't going to push him away. Relief gives way quickly to lust, and desire curls dark and insistent in the pit of his stomach as he lets one hand trail down her side, grazing over her breast and pulling her in close. She pulls back fractionally to give herself purchase to flip him over; hands tangling in his short hair she straddles him, peppering him with breathless kisses. 

"Carrie, Jesus" he breathes, pulling her up by her shoulders. She's magnificent; cheeks flushed, hair tousled, eyes fixed on him. 

He feels like he should say something but his head is fuzzy and spinning with lust, and when she twists her hips against his erection his eyes very nearly roll back into his head. 

He pulls her down instead, desperately wanting to regain control, desperately not wanting this to be over (which feels like an increasing risk with every time Carrie rubs against him). He rocks back against her deliberately, enjoys her sigh of pleasure and does it again, brushing his lips over the join between her neck and shoulder. Sex is usually functional for him; at best a means to an end or a manipulation; it feels alien to want to take the time to explore, to want to savour and draw it out. 

"You're doing bad things to my self control" he says, and she smiles shyly, bracing her hands on his chest. He reaches around to pull off her vest, almost breathless again at the sight of her naked. She arches and moans as he sits up, taking a nipple into his mouth, thumbs smoothing over her ribcage. She's so slight, he thinks, he could almost snap her in half; but he knows her strength as well, knows that she would take his worst and more. 

As if to test out his theory, he nips down hard on her breast; she cries out and then sighs again as he smooths over the bite with his tongue. 

"Please" she whimpers, "I want you"

His cock twitches in interest against the junction of her thigh and she grinds down again, friction fizzing in his veins. 

"Don't. Move. An. Inch" he instructs, swinging his legs out of bed and hunting for his jeans. He wants to stretch this out, savour it, but it's been too long for his body to withstand it. Carrie is propped up on her elbows, unashamedly naked, her cheeks still flushed and pupils dilated as she watches him roll on the condom. 

It moves so quickly then; she sinks down onto him, head thrown back; even through the latex she's hot and tight and so slick and smooth that he feels like 15 again and ready to explode. He grabs her hips, takes a breath to centre himself, and thrusts up; the noise she makes is obscene and he's pretty sure he'll hear it in his dreams. He sends a prayer up to a god he doesn't believe in that she's as close to the edge as he is and only a couple of moments later when he moves his hand between them and brushes his thumb over her clit she freezes, shudders and contracts hard around him, her breath coming out in ragged sobs and fractions of obscenity. He's right on the edge; three more thrusts and he's gone, heart thudding and vision blurred. 

He'd usually pull out straight away, clean up and get out, but he can't bring himself to walk away. His thumb finds Carrie's wrist and he grins as he realises her pulse is racing as fast as his; she settles forward onto his chest and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, stroking her hair back. It's almost like they're normal people, he thinks, for a second- and for once it doesn't make him angry or bitter, but sad in the knowledge the moment won't last. 

She's exhausted, pliant but slightly sticky against him and his arm is starting to go numb when she moves. He becomes increasingly aware of the need to shuck the condom and pee and shifts fractionally, sliding out of her.

They don't need words; she brushes her lips against his insistently, deepening the kiss until his libido is just starting to stir again, before regretfully climbing out of bed. 

"I'm going to shower" she says, gesturing towards the bathroom. He nods, so utterly relaxed he can barely bring himself to breathe, let alone speak. 

Food, and showering, and work can wait, he decides, leaning back and closing his eyes. 

****


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after

He’s woken by Carrie curling into his side, freshly showered and dressed for work, less than half an hour later

“Sleepy head” she teases, brushing her lips against his jawline, “Take the day off.”

He considers it for a moment; likes the idea.

“Take the day off yourself” he suggests, and rolls over, pinning her underneath him, so he can’t be misinterpreted. 

“Yeah?”

She’s tempted; he can see her resolve wavering and pushes his advantage

“I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

She grins at that, delighted, and tilts her head

“Oh really?”

Beside the bed, her phone rings and her face twists.

“Oh really?!”

She looks at him, conflicted, and he jerks his head. With a grumble she squirms under his arm and answers her phone.

“Yeah...no, I overslept...”

Quinn takes the opportunity while she’s distracted to wrap his arms around her, kissing the back of her neck where her shirt leaves the skin exposed. Her breath stutters when he sucks on the top vertebrae and he grins as she aims a slap at him.

“I’m gonna be a bit late, Saul...maybe an hour? No...I haven’t heard from Quinn...”

He wonders briefly how he feels about that, and then wonders at what point he grew a fucking vagina and lost all his brain cells. Of course they’re not going to tell people about their thing, if it even is a thing.

He wonders what he will do if (when) she pushes him away. He wonders if he will be able to take it, whether he will care. He wonders if he will break her before she has the chance to run. He wonders if they will rebuild each other when they break. He wonders if this is their last chance.

Carrie is off the phone now and frowning at him.

“You’ve gone distant” she accuses, “Regrets?”

God love Carrie and her bluntness. Quinn doesn’t know how he’d have dealt with a subtle conversation; this he can handle.

“None” he breathes, pulling her down against his chest, “Apart from you going to work.”

She murmurs her agreement against his neck, and then pulls away with a sigh.

“I really do have to go.”

He releases her reluctantly, gratified that she doesn’t move away from him for a moment.

“I really want to stay”

“Go” he says, catching her face between his hands and kissing her. He intends it to be brief but she leans into the contact, slanting her mouth against his and nipping gently on his lower lip.

“Carrie...”

“I’m going” she breathes against his lips, hands braced on his shoulders.

“I’m not going to let you go anywhere if you don’t move in five seconds” he says, and he means it; arousal is spiking through him and work be fucked, he wants her.

More than that, almost, he doesn’t want her to leave. If she leaves then he will have to and he has no idea when he’ll see her. He doesn’t want to leave this comfortable bubble and go back to what they had before.

“Ok” she sighs, getting up, “I’m gone.”

He rolls, catches her hand, wonders about saying something. Her expression is soft and he wonders if she is in the same position. He seems to be doing an awful lot of wondering recently.

“Are you gonna come in today?”

He considers it, thinks about all the reports he has to write, and pulls a face to her visible amusement.

“I’ll see you there then?”

“This afternoon sometime. You got a key I can use to lock up?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’ll take the spare; mine’s on the kitchen table.”

“Ok then”

“Ok”

The silence stretches for a moment before she huffs a laugh.

“Are you gonna make me do it?”

Tension broken, he grins

“I think I am”

She laughs again, and grabs her jacket.

“Or I could just let you squirm. Bye!”

******

He rocks up at work around lunchtime, aware he looks visibly more relaxed and also aware he left his car at Langley overnight so anyone with two braincells to rub together would be able to figure out he didn’t go home. 

The day is interminable. Carrie is in meetings with Saul and as soon as she’s out he gets called down for a training session. It’s busy, and he should be focussed, but all he can think about is the morning, images and noises freeze-framing through his mind.

“Quinn!”

He jerks upright, grateful he’s had an ear on the conversation, and manages to input something vaguely intelligent. Irritation grates at him; he needs to be better than this. He focusses hard on the rest of the meeting and is doing so well at being productive until Carrie appears at his desk with a cup of coffee and a question about the impact of new legislation and what he thought, and he’s right back to square one wanting to pull her onto his lap.

Maybe she sees that in his expression, or maybe she’s in the same repeat reel as he is, because high points of colour appear in her cheeks and her hand twitches fractionally when she hands over the coffee.

He feels suddenly more powerful for the knowledge that she is rattled, and stretches out in his chair. She watches every shift of his muscles under his shirt, seeing exactly what he’s doing, and smiles.

“Better get back to it” she says, gesturing to the pile of files on his desk, and saunters away, a little more swing in her hips than normal.

Fuck, he thinks with a grin. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he’s genuinely in over his head. And he couldn't be happier about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters to write…there's a lot of focus on Carrie's manic phases and I think people have a tendency to forget that bipolar works both ways. I hope you enjoy. There's a part II to this chapter which will follow tomorrow :)

She hasn't texted or called him in 5 days when he gets fed up and breaks into her house. He's not a clingy man, far from it, but everyone has limits and when he has his own key it isn't really breaking in (although if he steals it probably isn't strictly speaking his key)

He prowls quietly through the house; cold, deserted, lights off, and an uncomfortable feeling stirs in him as he takes the stairs up. Her bedroom door is ajar and he can see a shape under the covers, not moving. 

"Carrie?"

She doesn't respond apart from to pull the covers over her head and he can feel his temper beginning to bubble at her childish behaviour as his panic for her safety recedes. 

"You want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

No response. 

"Carrie, this is not okay..."

Still no movement, apart from fractional twitches; he realises suddenly she's probably crying and feels like a dick for a second until he remembers why he's here in the first place and strides over to the bed, pulling the covers back. She doesn't even try to stop him, just lies there staring ahead, mouth twisted miserably. 

She's lost weight, even in the week since he last saw her. There's a gauntness to her face he hasn't seen before. He's not a fan. He thinks about reaching out and decides she'd probably flinch and he can't bear the thought of seeing that. 

She's beginning to shiver and he's beginning to feel like a dick again, as well as worried. When he pulls the duvet back over her he leaves his hand on his shoulder a moment and she doesn't pull away, so he perches on the end of the bed. 

"Are you sick?" He asks hopelessly, because at this point he's really stumped. And then she twists and burrows away from him and he realises, fuck, that bipolar doesn't just mean being high as a kite and he definitely should have seen this coming. 

"I'm sorry" she whispers, still not looking at him. "I didn't want you to see me like this."

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

"Carrie, you're still the same person. Highs and lows don't change you."

She twists so far away from him that her face is buried in the mattress and he sits beside her, resting a hand lightly between her shoulderblades, palm down. 

"Can you talk to me?"

She shakes her head mutely but doesn't move away. He lets his thumb trace circles on the base of her neck; she's still trembling although he can't tell if it's from cold or emotion. 

Quinn isn't a carer by nature. He's a killer. He does what he needs to do and takes home a tidy pay cheque at the end of it and doesn't think too carefully about the feelings or emotions of others. He's never felt so impotent as he does now; like a psychotherapist at a gunfight, he thinks with some dark amusement. He desperately wants to do something but just has no fucking clue how. Talking clearly isn't helping; he's not really sure the physical contact is either. Making a cup of tea is just far too British a solution to something like this. Alcohol probably isn't really a plan either. Though it's increasingly feeling like something he’d like for himself. How did he get into this?

"I really don't know what to do here" he admits finally; he knows that she knows him well enough to have felt his tension. 

Surprisingly she seems to relax a bit at that. Maybe it’s easier when people are honest with her rather than bullshitting that they understand, he thinks.

"You don't have to stay" she says softly, flatly; "I'm hardly the best company."

"Do you want me to leave?"

She hesitates a beat; two; her lip trembles and he honest to god thinks she's going to say yes, but she doesn't (and he should be used to her surprising him by now). 

"Stay."

Her hand emerges from under the blankets and closes briefly over his and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

"It's really just a neurochemical imbalance" she says in the same flat tone, "it'll probably never go away, but it's just so hard to reconcile feeling like this when the opposite is so..." She trails off, eyes distant. "There are days when I'd do anything to make it stop."

He tries not to think too hard about that, what she means; tries not to think about how close or far away she is from taking that step. The thought of her feeling so desperate makes him feel cold inside.

"Can I ask something?"

She pauses and nods cautiously. 

"Why are you so anti-medication? I mean, I know the lithium dulls you. But aren't there other options?"

She pulls a face. 

"I worry the only reason I'm good at my job is this" she admits, so quietly he almost can't hear her. "And I'm nothing without my job."

"I wouldn't say that" he says evenly. "You're worth quite a lot to me, in case you hadn't noticed."

Like she always does when someone compliments her, she looks somewhere between shocked and derisive before her energy seems to vanish and she sinks back into the bed. 

He unbuttons his shirt, kicks off his shoes and slips his jeans off, folding himself around her. It feels good. It feels natural. Her skin is cool and dry against his chest; he's missed this, missed waking up with her plastered to his side. He's missed her. 

"Can I make a suggestion?" He asks softly, and she shrugs beneath his arm. 

"Why don't you get a second opinion?"

"They'll all say the same thing" she mumbles, "that lithium is the best."

Quinn sighs and tightens his arm around her briefly. 

"If you were missing something in a case...if it wasn't all fitting together...what would you do?"

"Ask for help" she says, so softly he can hardly hear it. He doesn't need to say anything else; he's made his point and it's up to her if she wants to take it on board. 

They lie there in silence for a while, neither sleeping. Carrie straightens out fractionally at one point, pressing her leg flat against Quinn's as though she can only manage human contact a few inches at a time. 

He's never felt the need to protect anyone as badly as this. His stomach clenches with it and he is overcome with the urge to squeeze her as tight as he can, as though he can somehow seal the cracks with sheer physical force. 

She straightens her other leg then, slowly, so she fits against his frame, and then relaxes her shoulders so they meet his chest. 

Cautiously, he shifts behind her, bringing one arm over her hip and squeezing her hand. Slowly, weakly, she squeezes back. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie has…unconventional methods of gratitude. Quinn is okay with that.

Several weeks later she takes a seat across from him in the canteen and smiles at him. That’s enough to put him on his guard; conversations with Carrie rarely seem to follow the initial impression. 

He pushes his coffee towards her invitingly and, after a quick look to make sure nobody's watching this brief moment of semi-intimacy she takes a sip an sighs with satisfaction. 

"Thanks"

"No problem"

He knows she's there for some specific reason because her shoulders are tense and her back straight. Facial expression: calm, bordering on overly so. He waits it out, sipping his coffee. 

"I went to the independent psychiatrist" she says in a low tone. Quinn thinks this could go either way; he's not used to her being this calm or open about her bipolar. Feels like he might be about to get both barrels or a sincere thanks. 

"He told me the rate of relapse with lithium is way higher than other meds if you stop it suddenly" her expression shadows "which is why I've always felt so awful on it. He said there were alternatives we could try- less strong alternatives that wouldn't slow me down so much. I've been taking quetiapine for a week now and...it's okay."

Quinn tries to keep his face unreadable but has a feeling some relief seeps through. 

"It's not going to change who I am but...you're the first person who's asked me to do anything other than just take my fucking meds and I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time about it."

He doesn't know what to say; doesn't want to patronise her by saying well done for going, doesn't want to downplay the significance. Thankfully, as ever, she asks the right question. 

 

"What're you thinking?"

He grins, self deprecating. 

"I'm thinking I want to do something really lame and sappy like hold your hand" he says bluntly, and she barks out a surprised laugh. 

"Let's go" she says, tilting her head towards the door, expression unreadable. He has no idea what's happening but nonetheless follows her out of the canteen and down a flight of stairs before she pushes the door of the ladies open with one shoulder, has a quick look inside and turns back to him with a genuine smile. Probably something good then, his mind supplies. 

Her fingers lace through his as she tugs him inside, locking them both in the end cubicle and pulling him down to kiss her.

It's heated and affectionate in the same moment; one of her hands is tangled in his hair just shy of painful but the other one is still holding his, thumb playing over the back of his hand. 

The kiss is becoming messy, sloppy, bordering on filthy and he's well on the way to hard, hip pressing against hers as she backs him into the wall. 

She pulls away, mischief in her eyes, and puts a finger to her lips as her other hand works the buckle of his belt. 

Message: don't make a sound.

He tilts his head quizzically and the moments later lets it fall back against the wall as Carrie drops to her knees and tugs his trousers down, one hand holding him steady by his hip. 

She presses a kiss to his hipbone first, open mouthed, a flick of tongue, and then slides her lips over the head of his cock. He makes a strangled noise and her eyes flick up to him; obediently he puts a hand over his mouth and she smiles. 

It's fucking incredible, the things she can do with her mouth. For a split second he wonders if he should have an ethical problem with her using head as a means of thanking him, but then she licks a stripe along the vein on the underside of his cock and he has to bite down on his hand to keep from moaning and he decides that moral crises can wait. 

She gets into a pattern that's pushing him closer and closer to the edge, twisting her lips around the head before swallowing him down whole and sliding her lips back again. He doesn't know if it's the sensations or the knowledge that it's her but it's breaking his mind in a million different ways and he doesn't think he's ever been this hard, almost aching with the need to come. 

And then, just when he thinks he’s about to claw back his self control, that he’s anticipated her rhythm, she pulls back with a fraction of a scrape of teeth along his shaft, her nails dig sharply into his hip, and with a strangled sob that he hides in his palm he comes undone, orgasm almost taking him by surprise, his entire body spasming, vision blurring and knees weak. She supports him to the floor, peppering kisses up his body; hip, stomach, ribcage, chest, collarbone, neck. 

He can barely breathe with the intensity of his orgasm, definitely can't speak. There are teeth marks in his hand that he doesn't remember making. The bite throbs. The last throes of his orgasm are still making him twitch. He can’t remember ever feeling so utterly spent.

Carrie touches his chin and he manages to muster enough energy to pull her close, carding his hands through her hair. 

After a few minutes she stirs, licks her lips and sits up straight, her back and shoulders cracking. 

"You ok?" She asks with a hint of amusement and he smiles back, aware he probably looks goofy as fuck. 

"I don't know how I'm meant to go back to work and achieve anything now" he grumbles good-naturedly. 

She gives him a hand to his feet and he grabs her by the waist, pulling her flush against him and kisses her, soft and slow and intense. Half 'thank you' and half 'just wait for tonight'. If the vaguely glazed look she's wearing as he pulls away is anything to go by, she gets it. 

She catches his wrist as he goes to open the door, and slips out ahead of him, checking the coast is clear before she nudges him out with her shoulder. 

"Go do some work" she says with a smile, and squeezes his hand quickly before disappearing towards the lifts. 


	10. chapter10

They’re just watching some crap on TV when Carrie huffs a sudden, surprised laugh. 

"You know what today is?" 

"Friday?"

 "It's a year today since that night in the bar."

Well fuck. Quinn wonders if his surprise is clear on his face because she laughs again and shakes her head. 

"I can't believe you've stuck it out this long" she says, and it's only half a joke, painfully insecure under the cover of flippancy. If he's honest, there's a part of him that harbours the same disbelief that someone can tolerate him for a year. 

He suddenly wants her to understand how precious this has become to him, this odd stability they've built. 

"I didn't kiss anyone for years before I met you" he says, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "I fucked people left right and centre, you know how it is. But kissing someone...that's letting them get too close. I'd do anything to avoid it."

Carrie smiles, though doesn't turn to face him. 

"I understand" she says simply, and the thing is, he thinks she does. It's why they work. 

“Anything else?” she asks

"You know I have a son too" he says. It isn't a question and she doesn't treat it as one. 

"You don't see him" she confirms, and he nods. 

"It's the only thing I regret about my job" he says, honestly. "But I can't be a father to someone who could be used against me."

"Does the mother know?"

He wonders how she feels. If there's a bite of jealousy behind the even tone to her question; and if it would be jealousy of the other woman or of having a child. 

"We don't have much contact" he replies, "she understands that it's safer that way."

Carrie hums in agreement but there's  suddenly something far-off and closed in her expression. 

"Carrie?"

She looks at him and there's a painful fragility in her expression. 

"If you walked away from this job..,you'd go back to them"

'You'd leave me' hangs unspoken in the air; suddenly the inches between them on the sofa feel like miles. He doesn't know what to say and goldfishes for an interminable moment, and she shakes her head, lip trembling. 

"Carrie..."

She shakes her head again and gets up abruptly. 

"It's fine. I'm just going to get some fresh air."

He sits there helplessly as she grabs her keys and shoes; if nothing else over the last year he's learnt not to push her when she's like this. The door slams behind her and he settles back into the sofa with an aggrieved sigh and waits for her to come back. 

Carrie holds it together until she's out of the door, and then the tears start falling. Stupid, stupid girl for letting herself get caught up in this when there's every chance that he would, entirely reasonably, go back to his child. Who wouldn't? Who would stay with someone so vulnerable and exhausting as her when they had the chance for a full life with a woman and a child?

She's never felt as close to someone as she does to him; never trusted anyone so wholly. And she's never deluded herself so completely; never not thought about the worst case scenario until now. She's been so oblivious to the risks they've been running, so caught up in the fun and stability and support that she's forgotten who she is and what she does. 

And now he's in her house, a year on, and she's in so far over her head. She's let it go on for long enough that she feels more than a pang of jealousy at the thought of him with another woman; had a brief dream that she would be the person he settled down with and who got to carry his kids. Stupid, stupid girl. 

The tears won't stop now; she sinks against the wall and sobs until she's exhausted and her eyes throb. 

She has two choices now; she can go home and face Quinn, talk through her concerns and fears and wants, or she can go to the nearest bar, get wasted and go home with the next bad news man who comes along, leaving Quinn waiting for her at home. He'll walk away if she does that, she knows- he's too proud to tolerate that, of all the things she could throw at him. 

A year ago she wouldn't have even had to think about it; she would be in the bar eyeing up potential candidates, planning out the best way to bail on Quinn. 

A year later she doesn't even have to think about it either; the thought of the betrayal on his face makes her gut clench and before she knows it her legs have taken her home, her key turns in the latch and he's standing there waiting for her, a hint of fragility in his face, and she flies at him, tears coming again. 

He catches her, engulfs her in his arms, holding her tight and pressing his lips to her hair until she stops shaking. 

He manoeuvres her to the sofa and pulls her into his lap, both unwilling to let go of each other. 

"Will you hear me out?" He asks softly, smoothing her hair back. Her face is buried in his neck and she shakes her head, but he's nothing if not stubborn and flatly ignores her. 

"What do you think I'm doing here, Carrie? You think I'm just killing time here til I'm done working and then I run back to the woman and child who barely even know my face? You think that's the kind of man I am?"

There's more annoyance than he wanted in his voice but he can't make himself stop now, even as she pulls away from him to sit up. 

"Just because you've always made self destructive decisions, don't imply that I do as well. Carrie, why do you think I'm here?"

"I don't know, ok? I don't know why you're here. I don't know what you want!"

Suddenly they're on opposite sides of the sofa and he's genuinely furious. 

"That's bullshit and you know it" he snarls "don't try and make this about me when you're just freaking out because we're a year in and you've just panicked that you're in something you don't know how to deal with. Don't blame me because you're too much of a coward to stick it out."

She recoils as though he's slapped her, and the fire leaves her in increments. 

"I would just walk away if I were you" she says hopelessly, "it's the safest thing to do."

"Do you want me to walk away?" He asks, and honest to god he doesn't know what he'll do if she says yes. 

"I love you" she says, and it hits him like a bullet to the gut. "I love you and it scares the crap out of me. So yes, I want you to walk away. I want you to get out of my life so I can be heartbroken and move on and not open myself up again."

His voice isn't entirely steady when he replies. 

"And if I don't want to walk away?"

She softens, visibly, and moves around the sofa, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

"Then don't. But you know how I am, Peter. This conversation will probably happen again in the future. I'm hardly an easy person to..." She trails off; he finds it amusing she can declare her love for him but still not accept that they're in a relationship. 

"I want to be with you" he says firmly, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't. At least trust me on that. I can't change my past and neither can you but if I wanted to be with those people I wouldn't have walked away from them. I'm not going to walk away from you."

Her hand trails down his arm until her fingers circle his wrist. He wonders if she can feel the hammering of his pulse; when her fingers linger there he knows she does, but she won't comment. Instead she links their fingers together and leans her head against his chest. 

"Are deep conversations always this traumatic?" She asks, and he can feel wetness against his shirt. 

"For people like us? I think they might be" he says, a hint of a shake to his voice that still won't go away. 

He takes her upstairs then and lays her out on the bed, slowly, carefully. He indulges himself in treating her like she's precious and fragile; she won't usually tolerate it, usually fights back against any perceived softness. Tonight, emotionally drained, she's pliant against him, soft and yielding to his touch. He takes his time exploring her body, sliding and twisting his fingers into her until she's breathless and moaning softly into his mouth, tracking every square inch of skin with his mouth. And when he does finally push in, it's slow and sweet and like nothing he's ever done before. 

He wrings orgasm after orgasm from her until her moans have turned into whimpers and whimpers to sighs, and only then does he let himself lose control, catching her gaze as he snaps his hips forward, feeling the animalistic rush of dominance as  she clings to his shoulders. His orgasm is almost secondary to the feeling of contentment; she holds on to him for minutes afterwards, fingertips stroking down his chest, peaceful and relaxed in a way he rarely gets to experience.  

He wants to tell her how much he means to him; he wants to tell her he loves her, but his throat closes up and all he can do is hold her. 


	11. 11

They've been working hard- too hard- when Quinn makes the suggestion that they get away for a few days. And when Carrie agrees with minimal fuss or anxiety he knows they've been working too hard. The fact that she’s threatened one of her co-workers with chemical castration for bringing her the wrong file corroborates that, and in some ways he’s disappointed he can’t use it as a selling point to her, because it was (and is) hilarious.

Carrie asks Saul for the time off as leave and then a day later Quinn cites family reasons and says he'll be back in a week. Honestly, if Saul suspects something, Quinn is almost past caring. They'll have to tell him at some point, but that's not a bridge he wants to cross right now. 

It feels simultaneously the most normal and strange thing in the world to board a plane together, no fake passports or firearms hidden in their luggage. They fly first class (never let it be said that the CIA doesn't pay well for the risks they run) and get drunk on free gin before they're even out of American airspace. Carrie dozes lightly, her head on his shoulder, and when he laces his fingers through hers she squeezes back sleepily. This, Quinn thinks, is perfect. 

They spend days walking the backstreets of Sicily hand in hand, sunning themselves on the beach, drinking ice-cold wine in the middle of the day. Carrie fills out, finally eating regularly. It's the first time he's seen her tanned, and probably the first time he's seen her truly relaxed; when he looks in the mirror he sees the changes in himself as well. Not for the first time he wonders if this is what life would be like away from the CIA. If they could move away, live a peaceful life somewhere. He wonders if she'd get bored. He wonders, more frequently than he's comfortable with, what it would be like to marry her, to have children with her. Her reaction to his ex partner and son intrigues him; he still doesn't know how many parts jealousy and insecurity made up that meltdown. 

They go out to dinner on the last night and he thinks it's funny they never do this back at home. She's wearing a silky green dress that does great things to her tan and bad things to his self control, and she looks so happy and relaxed that it breaks his heart that they have to go back to life and walk away from this. 

She's faraway in her own thoughts too, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. 

He catches her hand, draws it to his lips and kisses her knuckles. 

"This has been perfect" she says, her cheeks flushed by the candlelight, and he nods in agreement

"Shall we just stay here?"

She grins delightedly 

"Great plan..,until Saul comes and hauls us back to Langley"

He grimaces at the idea and runs his thumb over the back of her hand. 

The wine is good; he feels mellow and relaxed. No need for words at the moment as they sip their drinks and look out at the view. 

Later they walk down the beach hand in hand, barefoot, Carrie swinging her shoes over her shoulder. He's lost track of the times he thinks she couldn't look any more beautiful, and each time the thought seems to almost take him by surprise. This time, as she looks over her shoulder at him, he can't resist taking a photo; she moves back towards him, dropping a kiss to the corner of his lip as he turns the camera back on them. Their first photo together, he realises. They look good. They look happy. It should scare him, but it doesn't. He is happy. He's not bored. He's not trapped. 

He catches her by the waist, kisses the back of her neck, kisses her shoulder, kisses her cheek and then spins her round, one hand sliding up to cup her face, and kisses her properly. She arches against him, and the bad things her dress was doing to his self control? Well the self control’s gone, so that’s irrelevant now. He slides the dress down over her shoulder, catches her surprised gasp in his mouth.

They fuck under the stars on the beach and then make love (and when did that become something they did?) back at the hotel until they're exhausted, sated, sweaty. They shower the sand off together and sleep soundly, curled up together, until the alarm goes the next morning.

“Let’s just stay here” she groans from beneath the covers, “everything aches and I don’t want to go back”

He grimaces in agreement and stretches, enjoying the burn of his muscles, the crack of his joints. His body’s getting old, he knows - he doesn’t have the recovery time he used to, in field work at least. He’s needed this holiday as much as Carrie did.

Quinn peels the covers back, brushes Carrie’s hair out of her face. She looks up with sleepy, smiling eyes and pulls him down, the heat of her kiss belying her grogginess, and as he slides a hand under her vest and around her back to hold her close, deepening the kiss, he thinks that in some respects at least his recovery time is just fine.

********

Less than a week after they come back from Sicily he gets a call from Dar Adal at 3am and is packing a bag as quietly as he can when Carrie comes padding downstairs. He doesn’t know when 99% of his belongings ended up at her house but until she tells him to move them he’s not complaining.

“What’s going on?” she asks groggily, eyes flicking around the room, “You have to go?”

He doesn’t want to. It’s probably the first time in his career he’s actively not wanted to go on a mission. The thought makes him feel extremely uncomfortable and he doesn’t dwell on it.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back” he says honestly, putting down his gun and moving towards her. “It’s a distance trip”

She understands; knows she can’t ask more. Something inside of her feels heavy and anxious at the thought of him going, of being without him, but she can’t afford the weakness. They can’t afford the weakness.

“You’ll be careful?”

There’s more vulnerability in the question and her tone than she was aiming for but he doesn’t comment on it.

“I will” he kisses her, grabs his bag, kisses her again, fervently this time. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

When the door clicks behind him she almost wants to cry. She sinks into the sofa, listening to the rhythmic tick of the clock. Could be days, weeks, months until she sees him again. The thought genuinely panics her. Sleep won’t come now, she thinks, and she goes to put the kettle on. It’s cold and quiet in the house, a discernible (psychological) difference.

She pulls out her phone and texts him, not giving herself time to second check it.

‘I miss you. Be safe. Come home soon. x’

On the table his phone buzzes and she swears quietly; black ops, of course he can’t take it with him.

She sits quietly then, staring out of the window until the sun comes up.

********


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quinn comes back from his mission (I'm not ready to kill him off yet!)

Sleep doesn’t come easily to her until he’s back. She’s used to sharing a bed now; used to his warmth, his active sleeping, his quiet snoring. The house is too quiet without him, and she’s..well, she’s lonely, and it bites at her to admit it. 

When he does come back he’s at his worst, as he increasingly is after missions; angry, bitter and aggressive, and he can’t face inflicting his black mood on her. He hides out at his flat for a full day and night, unable to sleep. He has no food and he doesn’t want to go out. He can’t sleep. He’s not hungry. He misses Carrie. 

After his third consecutive shower and second straight gin, neither of which make him feel remotely better, he finally bites the metaphorical bullet and goes to Carrie’s house. He could let himself in but he knocks on the door instead, almost wanting to give her the option of being out, but she’s there in an instant making him wonder if she knew he was back. She doesn’t go to hug him or kiss him; she reads something in his expression that warns her off, and opens the door, gesturing him in as though they barely know each other.

Wordlessly she pours him a large glass of red wine, looks him over carefully, takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs.

“Carrie...” he starts warningly - he’s hardly in a mood to sleep - and she smiles.

“Trust me?”

He stands rigid and unsmiling as she unbuttons his shirt; he’s not in the mood for sex either; it takes him a few minutes to realise that’s not what she’s going for when she shucks off his shirt and begins working on his belt. It’s not til he hears running water and looks over her shoulder into the bathroom he gets it.

“A bath, Carrie, really?”

He doesn’t even try to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He’s hurting and he needs to lash out and she can take it, although he doesn’t like that she has to and he doesn’t like himself for doing it. But really, he’s in metaphorical pieces and she thinks a bath and some wine is going to help?

“Trust me” she says, still calm, and in the face of it he has no real energy left to fight. Grumbling under his breath he climbs into the bath as she slides in behind him, hands briefly gripping his shoulders for support as she sinks down.

Credit where it’s due, the hot water gets into his bones and chases away some of the aches he’s been carrying since before he even flew back from the mission. He unwillingly lets out a deep breath and sinks into the water so it laps at his shoulders. Carrie nudges the wine back into his hand and sure, that helps too, although on any other day he would query why alcohol is her answer to pretty much everything.

She shifts slightly so her knees are braced against the sides of the tub and rubs soap between her hands into a lather, stroking a path out from the top of his back across his shoulders. Her hands are strong and agile as she works wordlessly on his shoulders and neck, kneading at the knots in his muscles until the tension has pretty much drained out of him.

“Drink” she instructs him quietly, and he complies. Her hands card through his hair, massaging circles into his scalp.

Eventually he sinks back, anger dissipated, craving more contact, and her arms slide around his chest to hold him, her chin on his neck.

“How did you know?” he asks

“There’s something in your face when you come back and it’s bad” she responds quietly, evenly, “it’s like a giant ‘fuck off and leave me alone’ sign. I don’t know how to fix that but...I can only try.”

He feels like a dick for making that hard for her and says as much. She shrugs,  
 “It’s not like I’m not the same a lot of the time.”

“It’s getting harder and harder every time” he sighs, and her arms tighten around him. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing any more.”

She doesn’t say anything, just holds him. 

“I used to be really confident that I was a good guy killing bad guys. Now...I feel like I’m a guy getting paid to kill other guys. And it really bothers me. I don’t think the CIA care who we’re killing any more.”

“Or maybe we’re just starting to notice it” she comments, and he wonders if his self doubt is any kind of surprise to her or whether she’s seen this coming for a long time.

The water’s getting cool; she toes the tap and they both sigh as the bath warms up again.

“What’re you going to do?”

“What would you do?”

She tenses visibly at the question and he thinks with a mixture of sadness and amusement that after all this time she still doesn’t realise how much he values her.

“I would talk to my boss” she says cautiously and he can’t help pulling a face

“My boss is not the most receptive to moral crises” he comments drily, and she laughs.

“You’re the only one who knows, Peter. You have to figure out whether your concerns outweigh the benefits of them having you on the team. You’re his best but if you can’t do it any more I think he’d understand that.”

The logic behind that is too solid for him to argue against.

“You’re so wise” he agrees, the energy completely drained from him, “like a blonde Buddha.”

“Enough wine for you I think” she says, a hint of amusement. “Bed?”

“Only if you’re willing to carry me.”

“You’re going to get cold sleeping here.”

He groans and levers himself out of the bath, wrapping a towel around his waist almost in a daze. 

“Hey, hey” Carrie catches him as he sways, and helps him dry off. “When did you last sleep?”

“Sleep’s for the weak” he slurs as she helps him into bed, “I don’t need sleep. Carrie, come to bed...”

“I’ll be there in a moment” she promises. He doesn’t remember anything after that.


	13. 13

Carrie indulges herself in watching him for a while. He’s either got a tan from where he’s been or not lost it from their holiday but he looks exhausted, his face drawn and tense even in sleep. She doesn’t want to disturb him; it’s been too long since she woke up with him but he’s back now, and she can spare another night’s sleep to give him some proper rest. 

She curls up on the sofa and reads a book for an hour or so before she hears movement upstairs and then Quinn appears

“What’s up?” he asks, his expression somewhere between exhausted and confused.

“Nothing” she smiles, trying to hide the bone-deep tiredness, “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

His shoulders sag and he shakes his head

“I’ll sleep better with you there. It feels weird alone.”

It’s her turn to sway when she stands up; two weeks of sleeplessness make her feel like shit at the best of times.

“You ok?”

He doesn’t have the energy to care, she thinks, and nods

“I’m fine. Just lightheaded.”

They curl up in bed together and he’s unconscious within minutes. Everytime she closes her eyes, panic sinks in and her heart races until she opens her eyes and looks at him. She lies awake, silent, enjoying his body heat and the sound of his breathing until dawn. When her alarm goes he doesn’t even stir and she’s able to slide out from under his arm without waking him.

For a long moment she considers going back to bed, calling in and telling Saul she can’t make it, but the timing will be suspect especially after her and Quinn have just taken off at the same time for their holiday, and when she looks in the mirror and sees how rough she looks she thinks that he doesn’t need to wake up and worry about her. 

The drive in passes in a flash; the day drags interminably. She should have left a note, she thinks. She should have stayed in bed. She should have shown a little vulnerability. No, she shouldn’t. She did the right thing. She needs to trust him. Her thoughts spin and she drops her head to the desk with an infuriated groan just as Saul walks in.

“Carrie?”

She straightens up and blinks at him, forcing a smile.

“You alright there?”

“I’m good, Saul. Just...tired. Of paperwork”  
“Well I get that feeling” he agrees, and appraises her a bit more closely.

“You look tired again; the holiday glow didn’t last long.”

“I’m fine. Just...noisy neighbours the last few nights.”

He’s an idiot if he buys it but he pretends to anyway to her relief, and leaves her alone after that.

When she gets back from work she can barely see straight and certainly doesn’t care about what Quinn thinks any more. He’s cooking stir fry when she gets in and she can’t tell whether it’s the food or just being overemotional that makes her stomach twist. 

“I slept til about 3 o’clock” he announces from the kitchen as she leans against the hall wall and takes deep, steadying breaths. “Saul said it was fine for me to take the day. Dar fillled him in on where I’d been. How was your day?”

 

She counts her breaths, in for four and out for six. It isn’t helping, her head is swimming. She wonders if this is a panic attack. Breathe in for three and out for three. In for two and out for two. The corridor tilts and twists in front of her eyes. Breathe in for one, out for one. Her legs feel like jelly. Quinn is still talking in the kitchen but it feels like it’s coming from underwater.

“Carrie? You ok?”

“I’m fine” she says in a voice that is nowhere even close to even, and his footsteps come out. She can’t even remember why she didn’t want him to see her like this. She just wants to feel better. She just wants him to fix her.  
He crouches down in front of her, takes her hands in his, careful not to crowd her. She doesn’t even know when she ended up on the floor.

“Breathe” he says gently, and he looks so calm that she can’t disobey him. Her first breath sounds ragged and ugly to her ears and her whole body shudders.

“Keep breathing” he says, keeping hold of her hand. The warmth grounds her somehow and she can feel her muscles relaxing fractionally. There still isn’t enough oxygen in her lungs but blind panic is starting to give way to exhaustion which is progress.

He disappears for a second and immediately her breathing quickens, but he’s back straight away.

“I didn’t think setting your kitchen on fire would help” he explains with a smile, “You feeling a bit better?”

She nods mutely and leans forward so her head is resting on his chest.

“That your first panic attack?”

She nods again.

“My mum used to get them a lot. We learnt to keep paper bags around; it does something with carbon dioxide that slows down the breathing rate, gets you out of that vicious cycle.”

He strokes her hair back, checks her pulse, squeezes her hand.

“Carrie, when did you last sleep?”

The floodgates break then, and a sob breaks loose.

“The night you left” she hiccups, “Every time I close my eyes I panic something bad will happen and I know it’s selfish but I can’t help it...I’m sorry”

She dissolves into tears then, utterly humiliated. Quinn looks at her, baffled.

“You’re apologising for being worried about me?”

“I don’t even know” she wails, and he fights to contain a laugh.

“Carrie, never apologise for caring. I’d be pretty fucking unimpressed if I went on a risky mission and you didn’t bat an eyelid. But next time, talk to me when you’re not sleeping and feeling like shit, ok?”

She nods again, face still buried in his shirt.

“Everything’s so scary” she says, so quietly he can barely hear her, “I don’t like caring. I don’t like being without you. I’m not used to this.”

“I know” he drops onto the floor next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as she scrubs at her red eyes with her sleeve.

“That’s a good look for you, the panda eyes” he jokes, helping her to her feet before turning serious. “I’m sorry I was such a dick last night. Being done in myself is no excuse for not even asking how you were. I’m not that person, Carrie.”

Something relaxes her fractionally in that, though she can’t quite figure out why. 

“I know you’re not” she says, touching his face with her fingertips, “it’s fine, honestly.”

“Come have some dinner” he says, arm around her shoulder. She’s still wobbly on her feet, annoyingly. She hates feeling vulnerable. “Then bed.”

She doesn’t have the energy to fight it and eats a plate of stir-fry before collapsing in bed. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep but once she’s actually stopped worrying about Quinn she’s able to relax; he lies behind her and she can feel his heartbeat against her shoulderblade, and the rhythmic thumping lulls her into a deep sleep.


	14. 14

The next day, Quinn goes to Dar Adal. He’d been planning to anyway but the continued protectiveness he feels over Carrie, and the knowledge that her panic had been at least in part down to him, is enough to push the process forward a few days. It’s the first time in years he’s felt anything close to nervousness.

Unsurprisingly, his mentor is initially unsympathetic.

“Where is this coming from, Peter? You’re one of my best men, why walk away?”

A lot of answers come to mind, most of them lies or prevaracations. He considers each of them and then decides to go for honesty; he may not like Dar, but the man certainly deserves the truth.

“My priorities have changed, sir. I’m finding it difficult to reconcile it with my work life and my decision is to focus on the personal side.”  
 Whatever Dar was expecting, that wasn’t it; his large eyebrows raise and he leans back in his chair.

“Forgive me for being rude but I wasn’t aware you had a personal life.”

Quinn has known him long enough not to be stung by that; it’s almost a compliment anyway.

“It’s an ongoing development” he says evenly, “One which I feel surprisingly strongly about.”

“Of all my operatives...you’re the last one I would have expected to be having this conversation with.”

“Disappointed, sir?”

Dar smiles at that, clasping his hands behind his head.

“Would it matter if I was?”

Quinn considers that for a moment. A year ago it would have done. A year ago he wouldn’t have been here, wouldn’t even have been able to contemplate the idea of walking away from this.

“Not now” he admits

Dar twitches a smile.

“Honestly, I’m royally fucked off I’m going to have to replace you...but not disappointed, no. Just surprised. Had you pegged as a lone wolf.”

Quinn doesn’t have anything to say to that; it doesn’t sting like it’s probably meant to. He shrugs, keeping eye contact, shoulders relaxed, and Dar sighs.

“You’re really serious about this?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t” he points out, and Dar tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“I’ll put in a word with Saul then” he says resignedly, “See if he can take you on permanently.”

“I’d appreciate that, sir”

Dar stands up, offers his hand. It’s cool and dry and for an instant Quinn thinks of snakeskin.

“It’s been a pleasure” he says, almost sincerely, and Dar smiles, almost sincerely. As Quinn turns to leave the office, he clears his throat.

“Peter? Don’t fuck it up.”

As he closes the door behind him, he thinks that’s probably the most generous thing his mentor has ever said to him.


	15. Chapter 15

“You should meet my family sometime”.

Carrie says the words with the forced casualness she always does when she’s been building up to something for weeks. Quinn knows that’s how she is, and she knows that he knows it, so why she goes through it every time is a mystery to both of them.

Quinn doesn’t really know how to respond. He hasn’t had to ‘meet the family’ since he was in college. It’s not really a consideration in his lifestyle; but then this has been nearly two years (yes, he keeps count) and it’s not the most bizarre request she’s made of him (in the last two hours, let alone two years)

That said, he’s got his own views on Carrie’s family, and there’s a reason they don’t know about him yet. Well, two reasons; Carrie’s notorious privacy and their willingness to back off from her day to day life. In dark moments he wonders whether she’s ashamed of him but he knows deep down if anything she’s ashamed of being in a relationship and the weakness she still associates with it rather than him specifically.

“Is that what you want?”

She doesn’t balk at the blunt question; she actually smiles.

“Well, I’m on the fence about whether I want it or not, but I still think we should.” 

“Why?”

She chews her lower lip for a second, clearly thinking through her answer.

“It’s complicated because I’ve been alone for so long...I don’t know how they’re going to react. But it doesn’t seem fair to keep it from them.”

He can understand that. Families are unpredictable and Carrie is unpredictable; he can imagine it’s not always the easiest of situations. 

“Okay then” he agrees. She looks vaguely taken aback by his complicity, her brow furrowed.

“You sure?”

He puts down his book deliberately and quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Carrie, I’m a fucking charmer. They’ll love me. This is clearly a bigger deal for you.”

She huffs a laugh.

“You are so up yourself.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

She shakes her head, still laughing, but doesn’t tell him he’s wrong.

Yeah, he thinks to himself. He’d like to meet her family.

***** a week later *****

She stares at him, her eyes huge in the torchlight and her mouth flushed red against the pallor of her skin. He grabs her by the arms, hard enough to bruise.

“What the fuck happened?”

Her eyes flick from side to side, not focussing on him, and he shakes her

“I don’t know” she says, and coughs painfully, “There were more of them than our intel said. Someone knew we were coming.”

He wants to hold her but work, the safety of their team, has to come first.

“Are they all neutralised?”

She nods, exhausted, and lets out a shuddering breath.

“We got them all. It’s a fucking blood bath in there.”

He jerks his head and the cleanup teams start heading in; half an ear is still open to hear if anything untoward happens, but there’s enough radio chatter to allow him to relax.

 

“Are you ok?”

She coughs again, covering her mouth with her hand, and her shoulders shake.

“I’m cold” she says, in a tone of vague surprise, as though she’s annoyed by her body’s protestations in the November night.

Quinn shucks his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders, squeezing gently. He wishes more than anything right now that they didn’t have the shackles of professionalism; that they could just tell Saul what was going on and he could take her home.

She leans back against him and he tenses in surprise at the show of affection before he suddenly realises she is falling, utterly boneless. He follows her down to the ground, catching her before she can tilt sideways, panic rising in his throat.

She stares up at him, eyes foggy, and when he catches her hand she’s so cold it burns his skin.

“I didn’t even feel it” she breathes, and there’s so much in her voice that he can’t piece any of it together, apart from that he feels sick and like there isn’t enough oxygen, and that something is just so wrong.

“Carrie...” he starts, shifting her so that he’s supporting her against his legs, and then stops as she goes rigid and gasps in pain, and his hand is sticky and warm against her side.

“Oh fuck...”

The operative in him snaps into action, even while he can feel his hands shaking, pulling her jacket away, shouting for help, shouting for lights. Everything seems to take an age; there’s a dull buzzing in his ears, and all he can seem to focus on is Carrie trembling in some combination of fear, pain and cold.

“It’s going to be ok” he tries, wishing his voice was more soothing and less unsteady, “Can you press down hard here?” he positions her hand over his jacket, ruined, folded up as a makeshift pad against the gaping wound in her side. He has to stay calm. He has to breathe.

Carrie takes in another ragged breath and in the increasing torchlight he can see blood staining her lower lip.

“Peter” she whispers, and he leans in close, his hand covering hers, vainly trying to staunch the bleeding, “I’m scared”

He shifts so he’s wrapped around her; one arm around her waist, his legs framing her hips, his chest supporting her head as it lolls back. He’s never been so fucking scared in his life.

“It’s going to be fine” he repeats, as though he can make it fine by sheer strength of will. Her head tips to one side and he shakes her hard with the hand that isn’t hot with blood.

“Don’t fall asleep, Carrie. I need you to stay awake just for a bit longer, okay?”

She moves fractionally, whimpers quietly. He can hear, finally, the sound of sirens. There’s a buzz of conversation around him; he hadn’t even noticed the crowd surrounding them. Someone’s repeating his name. He can’t focus, can’t register; it feels so important that he stays holding onto Carrie right now, everything else can go swivel. With every ounce of professional strength he possesses, he drags himself back into the present. Carrie has gone limp in his arms and he presses down on his jacket, trying not to notice that it’s soaked through, trying not to calculate how much blood she must have lost. He tries to wake her a couple of times but she’s out cold. Her pulse is weak but detectable, jumping underneath his fingers.

After what feels like hours, medics push through, manhandle him out of the way. Ash-pale and covered in an oxygen mask he hardly recognises Carrie as they load her into the back of an ambulance, exchanging medical jargon at a rapid clip.

When he sees the defib being unlocked before they close the doors something cold threatens to creep into his heart and when he looks down his hands are shaking visibly. The ambulance roars off, sirens blaring, and they’re left in silence, skin bathed in the fluorescent glow of the retreating lights.

He’s the senior operative on site and he has to get his shit together and organise everyone, but all he can hear is white noise. He feels like someone’s taken his insides apart and put them together in the wrong order; his chest aches with panic and he needs to be there.

“Quinn?”

Deep breath. Focus. He turns to Galvez.

“What the fuck happened in there?”

Galvez shakes his head, looking as rattled as Quinn feels.

“I don’t know. We were outnumbered. Carrie ran off alone. I thought she was okay...”

Quinn swallows convulsively.

“You couldn’t have known” he manages, a weak approximation of comfort. Galvez shrugs.

“We can manage here if you need to get to the hospital” he offers, and every fibre of Quinn wants to do that. 

“I’ll go when we’re done here” he says, and then another wave of cold horror covers him, “Someone’s going to have to call her family.”

The irony that less than a week ago they were planning to meet her parents doesn’t escape him; if they had done then maybe he would have made the call, but he doesn’t know them and he defers to Saul, who looks suddenly twenty years older than he had that morning.

Quinn waits in Saul’s office until he’s finished the conversation, forcing himself to regulate his breathing. He hands over the mission like a good soldier, and then tells Saul in no uncertain terms that he’s not coming back to work until Carrie is okay. If his vigour surprises the older man he hides it well; his eyes pierce Quinn but his tone remains even as he instructs him to call in and update him on how she’s doing.

“Oh, and Peter?” 

He turns on his way out of the office and Saul grimaces

“Wash before you go.”

He doesn’t want to waste any time but takes the advice and ducks into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is so bloodstained he’d never be allowed within a mile of the ICU and he throws water on his face until the worst of it is rinsed away. Carrie’s blood, he thinks with an unpleasant twist. So much of it. 

****


	16. Chapter 16

Her father and sister are at the hospital before him and regard him with a mixture of intrigue and suspicion when he introduces himself as a friend from work. It’s not his place to discuss her private life, but it kills him when they are allowed in without him to look through the glass at her. Two hours in surgery and several transfusions have left her stable but under sedation and extremely weak, he’s told. 

Lucky to be alive, he’s told. Thank goodness for whoever found her and stemmed the bleeding, he’s told. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her family that it was him; what help would it do? He could have spotted sooner; he could have gone inside in her place. Guilt gnaws at him, for all that he knows it isn’t his fault. 

Around 6am they finally let him through, when her father and sister have gone home to sleep. She’s been intubated and there’s nothing like seeing the unnatural rise and fall of her chest to twist at his insides.

Quinn isn’t a crier. He can remember the number of times he’s cried easily. Can count them on one hand. The birth of his son, not that he was there, he cried like a baby. He thinks he might have cried the night Carrie took him home from the bar, though he doesn’t really remember. He cried at the end of Titanic, although nobody saw in the dark cinema so he doesn’t have to admit that to anyone.

Now, watching the woman he adores unable to breathe without the aid of a machine, his throat closes to the point of pain and his vision blurs. He tries to fight it for a moment before realising how futile it is. He allows himself 90 seconds of weakness, tears falling onto his shirt, fists clenched, and then brings himself under control. 

“We can call you if there’s a change” says the nurse in charge, and he whips around, surprised.

“I’m not going anywhere” he says fiercely, and regrets his tone as she backs up a step.

“Sorry. I just need to be here.”

The nurse smiles crookedly.

“It’s an ICU sir, I get plenty stronger language than that. If you’re going to stay I’ll have to ask you to have some food, you’ve been here all night and I don’t want you fainting on my floor.”

His stomach growls loudly at that and he grudgingly allows her to steer him to the waiting room where he wolfs down an ice-cold chocolate bar from the vending machine before going back.

He doesn’t leave her again.

*****

Several hours later Maggie walks back in, and does a double take when she sees him slumped in one of the chairs outside the main ICU.

“Peter?”

He jolts awake, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes instinctively, looking around the room to see who’s woken him.

“Maggie...sorry, I fell asleep. Is there any news?”

“I just got in...have you been here all night?”

He shrugs, feeling suddenly awkward in a way he hasn’t for years, exposed by his tiredness and her questioning.

“She was stable,” Maggie continues, “You could have gone home.”

Not without her, thinks Quinn. Not alone. 

“I just wanted to be here” he says evenly, and she visibly scrutinises him. 

“My sister doesn’t inspire that much loyalty in most people” she comments, and since it’s only a comment he doesn’t answer, instead stretching his aching muscles out. Maggie watches him for a few more moments before her expression softens.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve had an update” she says, “I can’t stay, the kids are on holiday today and as long as she’s stable....”

“I’ll be here” he says coolly, “even if it’s just waiting in the lobby”

That one hits home, but rather than getting nasty her face falls and for a second she looks just like Carrie when someone has hurt her. He feels like shit for it.

“Sorry...I didn’t mean...”

Maggie shakes her head and laughs humourlessly.

“You did, but it’s fine. I appreciate you being here, honestly.”

The words ‘even if you’re CIA’ hang in the air so loudly he can almost hear them, but credit to Maggie she keeps her tone and expression even. For a moment it looks like she’s going to say more, but she smiles and shakes her head and heads into Carrie’s room.

*****


	17. Chapter 17

When Carrie wakes up, it’s to a feeling not dissimilar to a hangover. Her mouth is dry, she feels sick and woozy and without even opening her eyes she knows the room is going to be too bright.

“Peter?” she mumbles, hearing movement; her throat hurts like a bitch.

“How are you feeling, Miss Matheson?”

Hospital then, she thinks, and tries to remember back to how she’s wound up here this time. It slowly comes back to her; the moment where she’d realised they were outnumbered, that they’d been set up. She’d made it out, Quinn had been there...everything else was fuzzy.

“Miss Matheson?”

With a huge effort she opens her eyes and immediately winces from the bright light. There’s movement in the corner of her vision and the glare diminishes. As her vision clears she sees Maggie in the corner and what she assumes is the doctor and nurse by the bed.

“Can I get some water?” she croaks, and Maggie moves to her side to pass her a cup. It feels amazing, chasing away the fog and soothing her throat.

“Was I intubated?”

The doctor twitches an eyebrow

“You’ve been in here too many times if you can recognise that”

Carrie thinks to herself that one time is plenty enough to remember that feeling, but keeps her mouth shut.

“You lost an awful lot of blood; the wound was deep and nicked an artery. You went into circulatory collapse and we had to put you under.”

She grimaces at the look on Maggie’s face.

“I feel okay” she offers, hoping to ease the worry she can see there.

“That’ll be the morphine” interjects the doctor, “I just need to check you over and then we’ll leave you to rest and see your visitors if you’re feeling up to it.”

She wants to see Quinn; the intensity of it hits her suddenly and she feels her lip wobble.

“Yeah, sure” she says, covering, and sits back while she’s poked and prodded at, answering all the questions to make sure she hasn’t had any kind of reaction to the anaesthesia. Finally they go, leaving Maggie hovering in the corner.

“Saul called” she says, “He wants you to call and let him know how you are when you get a chance. He’s been in meetings all day and couldn’t make it here.”

Carrie nods, suddenly feeling exhausted

“I think you should think about taking some time off to recover”

That sounds reasonable; she nods at that as well and Maggie frowns.

“I mean it, Carrie. This could have been really serious.”

“I’m not arguing. I think it’d do me good to take some time out. I think I was overtired and not thinking so clearly when this happened anyway...I could use a few weeks to recover properly. I think Saul will be okay with it.”

Her sister blinks and straightens.

“That’s unexpected coming from the biggest workaholic I know” she says, “Has something changed?”

Carrie sighs and resigns herself to having to wait to see Quinn. This is what happens when you don’t talk to your family for months, she reminds herself.

“A few things” she offers, “I changed my meds. That’s helped a lot. I’ve actually been taking them. Actually, they should probably know about that. I don’t want to skip too many doses.”

Maggie sits down in a chair and takes a deep breath.

“Carrie, what the hell?”

Stung, she tries to sit up and regrets it immediately.

“What do you mean what the hell? You’ve spent years telling me to take my meds and now you’re pissed that I am?”

Maggie exhales and slumps.

“No, just...this is such a surprise. And I don’t know why you didn’t tell me. And who’s this Peter Quinn who’s been skulking around since you came in?”

Carrie takes a second to absorb the implications of that. So Quinn has told her family he’s a colleague. He’s kept her privacy for her. He’s waited outside, despite being the closest family she has, because she’s balked against telling people. He’s been here for at least 48 hours, waiting.

Guilt squeezes her gut and it takes her a moment to answer.

“He’s a colleague. He’s the guy who’s helping me to stay well. He’s...he’s the best thing that’s happened to me in years, Maggie. I want him in here. Has he really been here the whole time?”

“He got here about an hour after you went into surgery and hasn’t left since” she pauses, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

The pain in her side is moving from a mild irritation to the feeling that someone’s inserted a red-hot poker between her ribs.

“I didn’t think you’d understand” she says, unable to phrase it more delicately. “I thought you’d either assume he was a bad idea or get over-excited and think I was lined up for marriage and babies. I’m sorry, Maggie. I know I should have told you.”

Maggie sighs, and takes Carrie’s hand.

“I hate to say it, but I can see why you’d think that” she admits, “I know dad and I can be a bit intense. It’s only because we care about you, but I get that it’s maybe not the most supportive way of doing things.”

“Before this happened we’d agreed to tell you” Carrie says, her voice cracking, “I wanted you to meet him so that...”

She waves her hand around and they both know what she means; so that a first meeting between them didn’t happen in hospital.

“It’s okay” Maggie says soothingly, “I’m glad I know. And for what it’s worth, he seems nice. In a scary kind of way.”

Carrie laughs at that, but it hurts so much it turns into a choked sob.

“Some pain relief would be good” she breathes, and Maggie goes to hit the nurse button before pausing.

“It’s going to knock you out” she says, “Do you want to see Peter first?”

Carrie nods, biting her lip, and Maggie slips out. They come back within the minute and she’s immediately shaken by how awful he looks. He’s got a few days worth of stubble and his eyes are tense and lined. 

“Peter” she breathes and he moves over cautiously, “You look as bad as I feel”

That makes him laugh, and relief brightens his features. She catches his hand and squeezes hard.

“I told Maggie” she says evenly, “You have to be here as family, Peter. They won’t keep you away now.”

He nods, more comfortable in the situation now, and runs his thumb over the back of her hand.

“How’re you feeling?”

She grimaces.

“Like someone’s rammed a rhinocerous horn through my waist. I’m gonna get some more morphine in a moment and I’ll be out for a few hours...can you go home and get some sleep?”

He bites his lip, clearly unhappy at the idea of leaving her.

“I’ll make you a deal” he says finally, “I’ll go home, shower, sleep and eat, but when I come back you let me look after you, ok? No arguing, no trying to go back to work.”

“You sound like my sister” Carrie grouses, and then sucks in a breath as another wave of pain hits her, “Fine, deal. Just someone get me some morphine, please.”

Maggie presses the button and leans over to kiss Carrie on the cheek.

“I’m going to head back to work” she says, “I’ll come back after my shift. Nice seeing you, Peter”

He nods at her with a smile and she leaves, catching the nurse on her way out.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asks solicitously and Carrie shakes her head.

“Not enough room in these beds for two” she says, sounding genuinely disappointed, and he laughs.

“I’ll be back soon. Well rested and fed.”

“You might want to wash the blood off your neck” she points out with a smile, and he touches behind his ear.

“Just made me feel closer to you” he quips and she hits him lightly.

The morphine pump clicks into action behind him and Carrie lets out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. The last thing she knows before falling into unconsciousness is his lips against her forehead.

******


	18. Chapter 18

She’s discharged a week later, weaned off the morphine and just about able to walk without pulling on the stab wound. The knife went through at an angle, tearing at muscles and leaving an ugly scar behind. The thought of Quinn seeing it makes her itch under her skin and it’s on her mind to more of an extent than she can really deal with. The thought of his revulsion tweaks at her nerves until she feels about ready to snap at anyone who gets too close.

She’s silent and brooding on the drive home and Quinn lets her be, attributing it to pain and tiredness. She doesn’t protest when he helps her out of the car, an arm around her waist to support her, or when he insists on carrying her bag. She allows herself to be propped up on the sofa and hides her deep breathing from the pain until Quinn has left the room. 

“Is everything okay?” he asks, perceptive as ever, when he comes back in and her eyes are closed. She forces a smile that they both know is fake and nods.

“Carrie...” he starts, his tone serious, and she suddenly feels a grip of panic that she hasn’t for years before now. She wants to run, to push him away, and she doesn’t know why. She’s scared, she realises, but it’s not entirely clear to her why; he’s been nothing but sympathetic and a calming influence until now. Maybe, she thinks, he doesn’t deserve to have to deal with someone so physically wrecked as well as mentally.

“I’m in a lot of pain” she says, and it isn’t a lie, but it’s a clear deflection. It’s with a combination of sadness and resignation he goes to get her painkillers, and she’s relieved when he doesn’t push her any further. 

She curls up in bed on her own, and tells herself the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach is the combination of painkillers and tiredness until sleep takes her.

*****

Quinn lies on the sofa, torn between anger and anxiety. The warmth has gone from their relationship; or rather Carrie’s warmth has. She won’t look him in the eye or engage in conversation, he doesn’t understand why, and it’s concerning and irritating him in equal measure. This Carrie, stroppy and offish, is a stark contrast from the warm and relaxed (albeit unpredictable) woman he’s been in a relationship with, and he doesn’t like it.

Around midnight it becomes clear to him that he isn’t going to get sleep without checking on her and he takes the stairs silently. Her door is closed, another ‘fuck you’ as far as he’s concerned. 

She’s flat on her back and fast asleep, chest rising and falling steadily as he leans against the doorframe and watches her. She looks peaceful and so beautiful in sleep, her face relaxed and soft; a stark contrast to the pinched expression she’d been wearing earlier.

What had gone wrong?

As though sensing his discomfort, she moves in her sleep fractionally and the pain shoots through her waist, jerking her awake. He can pinpoint the moment she realises he’s there because her expression closes off again and her lips thin.

He wants to ask what’s going on but can see the pain and exhaustion lurking behind her eyes too.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She shakes her head and shifts, visibly uncomfortable in the movement.

“You don’t have to stay here” she says, clearly trying for indifference and missing by a mile. The insecurity in her voice is unexpected but clear and he sets it aside to analyse at a later date.

“We had a deal” he says calmly, and she laughs.

“Is that the only reason you’re here?”

He has to process that for a moment before irritation starts to build.

“I’m going to assume you’re tired and in pain and that’s why you’re being like this” he replies coolly, “I haven’t done anything to deserve it. And if you can’t figure out the reasons why I’ve been here then we really have a problem.”

For a second he thinks she’s going to crumble, but the wobble in her lip turns into a twist.

“You can’t even tell me you love me” she says cruelly, “And I’m the one that has a problem?”

It’s a low blow and designed to hurt and it does. He takes a deep, steadying breath and turns away.

“I’ll be downstairs if you want anything” he says, and she doesn’t respond. He can’t, won’t turn around because whether she’s hurting or not hurting he doesn’t think he can stand to see it.

******

When she wakes up the next morning it’s to someone knocking on her door and for a moment she thinks it’s Peter before the memory of last night comes back to her and something cold and heavy settles in her stomach. The door cracks open and her father steps in, holding a tray with tea, toast and a bottle of painkillers.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks and she shrugs.

“I’ve been worse.”

He doesn’t respond to that because there’s no easy response to make.

“Your friend left this morning” he says cautiously, visibly unsure how she’ll react.

“Good” she says evenly, “I’m sure work need him back.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t want to stay” her father returns, “He seems to care about you.”

Carrie doesn’t have a reply to that but her father is clearly in the mood to press the point.

“Seems to me like you’re determined to push him away.”

Her temper flares.

“What if I do?”

He shrugs, and touches her hand lightly.

“All I would say is if you find someone who accepts you, who loves you as you are...it can be terrifying. But not as terrifying as not having that person.”

She mulls that over for a moment. Tries to imagine her life now without him; tries to imagine how she would feel if she’d held him in her arms as he bled out onto the concrete in the middle of nowhere.

“I fucked it up” she admits, and her dad squeezes her hand.

“Sweetheart, there is nothing in this world you can’t fix if you put your mind to it.”

*****


	19. Chapter 19

He doesn’t come to hers that night, and although she promises Maggie she’ll call him she can’t bring herself to pick up the phone, and she can’t sleep knowing he’s not there. It’s one of the more idiotic things she’s done, but by midnight she’s desperate enough to pull on jeans and a sweater and grab her car keys. The whole drive to Quinn’s place she’s on an adrenaline high; when she parks up outside the adrenaline fades and she suddenly feels insecure again. Does he even want to see her?

Before she can lose her nerve the door opens and he stands there, framed against the light, arms folded. He does not look welcoming.

It takes more pride than she imagined to get out of the car, and the walk to his front door feels endless.

“How did you know I was here?” she asks, and he looks down at her, arms still crossed.

“Your sister called. She dropped in to see how you were and panicked when you and your car were gone. You shouldn’t be driving on those meds.”

“I haven’t taken anything since 10 this morning” she retorts, and for a second he looks concern before his features sharpen again. It’s been years since she’s seen this side of him and she feels like scum for bringing it back.

They stand there in silence for a moment before he grudgingly steps aside to let her in.

“You should let your sister know you’re here” he says flatly, and she nods tiredly, pulling out her phone and sending a quick message apologising for not leaving a note.

They stand in the hallway in silence for a long minute before she musters the courage to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry” she says, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind and it’s true. He doesn’t respond, simply quirks an eyebrow.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away. After everything. Especially after this.”

“So why did you?”

She chews on her lower lip, forcing herself to look him in the eye.

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to look after me” she says quietly, and he pushes himself away from the wall, arms still crossed, posture tense.

“Don’t you think that’s my decision?”

She feels suddenly like she’s going to cry; her throat closes up. She hasn’t seen him so angry and hurt for years.

“I’m sorry” she repeats, but he’s barely listening.

“I’ve been trying, wanting to be there for you since I met you, Carrie. There’re only so many times you can push me away, do you understand?”

She takes a step backwards, feeling as though he’s physically slapped her, and for a moment his face softens.

“Carrie...”

She shakes her head; her hands are trembling and she feels as though something is about to be ripped away from her that she can’t be without.

“You said you understood what I was like” she says, unable to hide the broken catch to her voice, “You said you understood things like this would happen. What, did you think because I changed my meds I’d suddenly become a different person?”

He steps forward, eyes blazing.

“I don’t want you to be a different person” he snaps, “I want you the way you are, but I’m fucking scared, okay?”

Just like that the anger evaporates from both of them and Carrie’s shoulders slump.

“Afraid of what?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Afraid of losing you” he says softly, “Carrie, honest to God, I thought I was going to have to figure out how to live a life without you. I thought you were going to bleed to death. And I know I’m not the most caring of people, but that scared me more than anything I’ve ever experienced. And then to feel like you didn’t want to have anything to do with me after that...”

She takes a tentative step forward and touches the back of his hand

“I’m really sorry” she breathes, “I didn’t realise...”

“You’ve never realised what you mean to me” he says, pinning her with his gaze. “I sometimes think you think I’m just fucking around with you until I’m moved away for a mission. And that makes me think that maybe that’s how you see this relationship too. That at some point you’ll get posted away and that’ll be it.”

Carrie blinks and feels a tear splash onto her cheek.

“That’s not what I want” she says, lip trembling, “Peter, I don’t...I wouldn’t. But yeah...there’s been a part of me that thinks you’ll leave me. I’m sorry; it’s not that I don’t trust you, you know...”

“You don’t trust anyone” he finishes her statement, and touches her face gently. “Carrie, I would do anything for you; I will do anything for you, but I need to know that you see this going somewhere and you’re not going to bail on me. I can’t let that happen.”

Exhaustion washes over Carrie and she leans back against the wall.

“I won’t bail on you if you don’t bail on me” she manages, and he relaxes visibly at her words.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He steps in close and catches her by the shoulders, his touch almost tentative until she melts into him.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” he asks, and she nods against his chest. 

They curl up in his bed and she holds him as tightly as he can remember, as though he’s going to disappear if she loosens her grip. When she leans over and kisses him, it’s messy and bruising and he can taste saltwater on her lips. He should push her away, he thinks; she’s emotional and fragile (they both are) and she has a healing wound that doesn’t need pulling, but suddenly all he wants is to be closer to her. He doesn’t like it when he remembers that, in his own way, he’s every bit as broken as she is.

He slides a hand down to her hip and pulls her on top of him; he’s hard already and when she twists her hips against his he loses his breath for a moment, groaning quietly.

“Carrie...”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence; he slides his hand from her hip across her waist and she pulls back so quickly he almost gets whiplash.

“No” she says sharply, and he withdraws his hand as though it’s been burnt, utterly confused.

They stay still for a couple of moments, Carrie’s shoulders up by her ears with tension, balanced on her knees halfway down the bed, Quinn propped up on the pillows trying to control his breathing.

“What...?”

Carrie’s eyes slide away; she looks pale and panicked in the half light.

“Peter, you can’t see me like this. I look...”

He sits up straight and catches her face between his hands.

“Don’t even finish that sentence” he says, a hint of genuine warning in his voice, “Carrie, you can’t possibly think a scar makes a difference.”

She doesn’t respond but doesn’t flinch back when he moves forward to touch her again; even leans forward into him.

He doesn’t have words that don’t sound trite and pathetic so he doesn’t say anything. He moves down the bed and brushes his lips over her neck, feeling the flutter of her pulse; kisses her collarbone, strokes his thumb down her ribcage. 

As soon as she’s relaxed from that contact he shifts again, holding her close and running his hands over her back. She’s still tense, but feels less like she’s going to run away now, and he can feel a flicker of arousal making its way through his conflicting emotions.

When he kisses her, she responds tentatively at first and then more confidently. He realises it’s been weeks since they had sex; makes a mental note that that shouldn’t happen again. Slowly they begin to fit together in the way they always have, invisible walls breaking down between them.

When he grazes a nipple through her shirt and she arches against him with a breathless curse he finally relaxes.

“Trust me” he breathes, and she nods silently as he lifts the shirt over her head. He’ll always admire her breasts ahead of noticing the scar, he thinks, but it doesn’t seem like the moment to point that out. He spends several moments lavishing attention on them with his tongue and lips and fingers until she’s utterly pliant beneath him, and then he trails a sole finger lightly down her side until he feels the raise of scar tissue. She tenses again but he keeps a hand soothing her hair and runs his fingers around the wound until she calms again.

When he picks her up by the hips and sits her on his lap she flinches again; he pauses for a moment to make sure it isn’t pain before lowering his mouth to her hip and pressing an open mouth kiss to it. She shudders but doesn’t tell him to stop; he moves up a fraction where he can almost feel the heat of the healing wound and brushes his lips feather light against the sensitive skin there. He can feel her tense again, but this time there’s a sigh of pleasure and when he sucks gently on the exposed skin she swears quietly.

“Peter...”

He speaks against her skin; he knows she can hear him and he feels exposed,

“You’re still the same person” he sighs, “Just with another mark.”

She pulls him up then and kisses him hard and filthy, grinding against him.

“I love you” she breathes, as though the words have been dragged out of her by force, and he thinks in some ways they might have been. “I love you, Peter.”

Her hands fumble with his boxers, palming him, clumsy in her haste, and he can’t think clearly enough to do anything but slide into her when she sinks down onto him, meeting him halfway. It’s tight and hot and he can just about pretend it’s sweat running down her face because it makes him feel less like he’s breaking her.

She dictates the pace for a while, drawing him towards the edge and slowing down again, head thrown back, and he thinks that this will be his new favourite mental image of her, strong and scarred above him, wrapping him around her little finger. 

His orgasm curls viciously in the pit of his stomach when she leans back fractionally and he can’t help but take her hips in his hands and take back control, upping the pace until she’s whimpering and swearing a blue streak and tensing around him as she comes. One, two, three thrusts later and he loses control too, and it’s the first time they’ve done this without a condom he realises as he spills deep inside her. When he lets go there’re marks on her hips where he’s grabbed her but he can’t feel bad about it.

She leans forward to kiss him, breath shuddering out, and then winces in pain.

“Please tell me you brought painkillers” he says, with no optimism whatsoever, and she sighs.

“I had to see you. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

He slides out, suddenly feeling uncomfortably sticky, and pads into the bathroom

“All I’ve got is codeine” he says, tossing her a handful of tissues, “That do?”

She nods, cleaning up, and he hands her the box and a glass of water.

“Do we need to worry about this?”

Carrie huffs a laugh.

“Way to kill the mood, Peter. It’s fine. I’m clean. I’m on the pill and...well, I haven’t been sleeping with anyone else.”

He’s not surprised but somehow there’s some element of relief to hearing her say it.

“I’m clean too” he says easily, and wonders why in nearly three years they haven’t had this conversation. Their lifestyle dictates stringent precautions, he thinks. But still. He hasn’t been that reckless since he was a teenager. Too many consequences to think about to have that kind of luxury.

The train of thought is taking him to places he’s not sure he’s ready to go to yet; places he knows Carrie isn’t. He pulls her into his side and holds her until she’s asleep; the rhythmic sound of her breathing relaxes him into a doze, and before he slips under he thinks that maybe things are going to be okay.

******


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter…can you believe it?!

Time goes by and Carrie heals. Just like she agrees she takes the time off work and even lets Quinn look after her to an extent. As with anything, they fight over the details for a while until they settle into a routine. The closest interpretation of her behaviour he can make is that he can really only do one or two nice things in succession before her temper starts to fray; so a cup of coffee in the morning and calling in his free time to make sure she’s had lunch is about as safe as it gets on an average day. He doesn’t mind too much; she’s at her best when she’s angry and he doesn’t want to be with a passive, needy woman. He wonders how they managed to find such a good fit for each other when he’s feeling pensive; more and more over the years he’s realising how well they work despite being utterly opposite in so many ways.

He hasn’t been in a relationship before where he hasn’t wanted to walk away; even the mother of his baby, wonderful as she was, had stifled him to an extent that he’d accepted her pushing him away. He can’t imagine that future with Carrie; either that she would try and get rid of him or he would let her, and that thought should scare him more than it does.

She’s not perfect by any means, but neither is he, and he wouln’t want her to be. She understands his darkness, has experienced it herself on a different angle. She will never tell him how to feel or what to say; she makes him feel better when he’s at his worst.

And for his part, he will support her when she wants it and back off when she needs it. He understands her on a fundamental level, as she does him, and they need each other. It’s as simple as that. They need to be together.

He stares unseeing at his computer screen, struggling to concentrate. He wants her back at work, he thinks. For the quick half smiles she shoots him when she walks past, for the coffee breaks they take without anyone caring, for the times she unexpectedly grabs him in the corridor and pulls him into a cupboard, kissing him until they’re both breathless and tousled. For having someone to bounce ideas off, for her flashes of brilliance and inspiration.

And then he doesn’t want her to come back. He know she’ll put herself in the line of danger again; she has to, it’s her job and he would never ask her not to. But he can’t face the idea of feeling her collapse in his arms again; or worse, not being there and getting the call from Saul; the race against time to the ER. 

He scrubs a hand through his hair and swears quietly under his breath, not for the first time wondering what he’s got himself into.

*****

Several weeks later the decision is taken out of his hand when Carrie announces she wants a ride in with him because she’s going to meet Saul. He can’t keep the news from affecting his demeanour and is cool and quiet on the way to work. Carrie’s no stranger to silences but she knows him too well to believe it’s tiredness and tells him so.

He sighs, putting the car into neutral in the carpark and turning to face her. They’re getting sloppy, he thinks - they never used to drive in together, or if they did he’d drop her off outside the gates. Now they’re sat having a conversation in the centre of the car park as everyone files into work.

“I don’t want to tell you” he says bluntly, “You’ll hit me”

She snorts

“Don’t be a pussy. You’ve been shot in the gut and you’re worried about me hitting you?”  
It’s a reasonable point.

“I’m worried you’ll be pissed and refuse to have sex with me”

That elicits a genuine laugh out of her and she shakes her head.

“Do you want me to guess?”

He grins, marginally relaxed.

“Sure.”

“What do I get if I’m right?”

He twists his mouth

“The satisfaction of knowing you’re almost as smart as me?”

She hits him, not hard enough to bruise but not far off it.

“I’ll buy you dinner if you’re right.”

Carrie laughs again, bright and happy, and nods.

“Fine, deal - I’m picking.” she pauses and looks at him closely, “I think I figured you out, anyway.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her, inviting her to go on. He doesn’t know if he’ll feel more exposed if she’s right or wrong. He doesn’t like feeling exposed.

“I think you’re scared that if I go back to work something will happen to me” she says, the humour gone from her voice, “I think you’re scared that I’ll be on my own in the field and if something happens you won’t be there to pull me out.”

He swallows reflexively, feeling undone in a way he isn’t prepared for, and she doesn’t press her advantage, instead reaching over to cover his hand on the gearstick.

“I promise I will be careful” she says earnestly, “I can’t promise I won’t get hurt because I could get hurt crossing the road, but I promise I will be careful. I don’t want to leave you.”

He catches the back of her head in his hand and pulls her in for a bruising kiss, angling his mouth against hers. She only pauses for a moment before responding eagerly, her fingers tangling with his.

Regretfully he pulls away, sliding his hand around to cup her cheek and holding her eyes.

“Carrie” he breathes, “I....”

His sentence is interrupted by a knocking at the window and Carrie’s face losing its colour. He turns slowly, praying to a God he doesn’t believe in that it isn’t Saul.

Of course it’s fucking Saul. There’s no mirth or warmth in his face as he observes them through his glasses, eyes black under his bushy eyebrows, and Peter suddenly feels like a schoolkid caught in the act. Saul leans back from the car, raises a finger and beckons them both before pointing up to his office and turning and walking off.

Shit.

*****


	21. Chapter 21

It’s excruciating at first. They should have had this conversation before so they could get a story straight rather than glancing awkwardly at each other as they shuffle in front of his desk.

Saul regards them over steepled fingers and shakes his great head.

“You understand that this is not acceptable” he says grimly, “I cannot have two of my analysts having an affair.”

Quinn bites his lip. Hard. 

Carrie doesn’t.

“It’s not an affair” she says, her voice quiet but determined, and Saul looks up sharply.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not an affair” she repeats. “We’ve been in a relationship for the past three years.”

Saul’s mug drops to the desk with a crash and china and coffee go flying. Quinn bites back a semi-hysterical laugh.

“Are you fucking serious?”

Carrie’s exhibiting warning signs now; Peter knows them and he’d hope Saul would after all this time.

“Very” she says, leaning forward across the desk, “It hasn’t impacted or compromised our working relationship. Have you had any complaints?”

Saul sits back, massages the bridge of his nose and appears to think about it.

“No” he says grudgingly.

“Is that all then, sir?” she spits the words out and couldn’t sound any less respectful. Peter has never wanted her more.

“I want a word with both of you alone” he says firmly. “Carrie, wait outside.”

Carrie almost swells with rage but Peter touches her elbow lightly and smiles and she subsides with a grimace, stalking out of the office and throwing herself down on a chair outside.

“What are you doing?” asks Saul abruptly, almost taking Peter by surprise, “Is she really serious? Three years?”

Quinn takes a deep breath and forces himself to stay calm.

“I understand why you’re asking” he says evenly, “But our relationship is private and I won’t talk about it unless you can give me a genuine reason for demanding information. Is that going to be a problem?”

“It probably will be when it ends” growls Saul, “When she relapses, or just decides she’s bored and decides to fuck someone else.”

Quinn leans forward, bracing his hands against the desk.

“You are way out of line” he says coolly, swallowing down the burning anger and keeping eye contact with Saul. The silence stretches for several seconds before Saul looks away.

“I have to look out for my team” he says, in a way that doesn’t sound much like an apology.

“If you’re looking out for your team then you’ll see that Carrie and I are doing just fine.”

Saul has no response to that, mouth twisting.

“Are we going to have a problem?” he asks calmly, and Saul shakes his head.

“Not until you fuck it up” he says dourly, and Quinn takes that as his cue to leave.

Carrie stands up abruptly when he leaves and tilts her face up to him.

“How was he?”

Quinn shrugs

“Belligerent. Try not to antagonise him too much...”

She pulls a face and heads in, shoulders set.

***

Saul looks at her and seems to sag visibly.

“I don’t want to fight over this” he says, and she shakes her head.  
 “Then don’t ask me to chose between the job and the man I love” she says simply. “He makes me so happy, Saul. If it comes to a decision between this job and him, you’re not going to like the outcome.”

He blinks, startled, and searches for words for a moment.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The anger evaporates from Carrie and she sinks down into a chair.

“Because I thought you’d react like this” she says sadly, “And I hated the thought of you not being on my side.”

He sighs, and leans forward.

“I am on your side, Carrie. You have to understand though, it’s a little surprising. Three years?”

“Just over” she confirms, and the silence stretches again, companiable this time.

“And you trust him?”

She blinks, surprised by the question, and then realises what he means.

“More than you can imagine” she says with a faint smile, and Saul nods.

“Well...that’s more than most people can say” he acknowledges. “Just...be careful, Carrie. On every level. I don’t want to hear about this from anyone else.”

She nods, relieved he’s being as accepting as he is, and makes her escape. Behind her, Saul massages his temples with his knuckles and tries to get his head around a world where Carrie and Quinn are in a long-term, functional relationship.

******

“Do you ever think about having kids?”

Carrie blinks sleepily at him and stretches, the sheet slipping down and exposing her breasts. Peter tries to concentrate on her answer but suddenly his mind is elsewhere.

“That’s a strange thing to ask” she says, rolling over to rest her head in the crook of his neck. “How long have you been awake?”

He slides his fingers through her hair, caressing the skin at the top of her neck as she arches in closer. She’s taken to sleeping naked recently; he’s a fan.

“Not long” he says, pressing an open mouthed kiss to her shoulder and grazing the skin with his teeth as she sighs, shifting so he’s propped over her on one elbow.

“And there was me thinking you wanted to talk” she says with a smile as he cants his hips against her, making it clear just how awake he is. “I’ve always thought talking’s overrated.”

“I’ve always thought you talk too much” 

She leans up to meet him, lips crushing together hungrily as he slides two long fingers inside her, swallowing her moan.

“You like my verbosity” she counters, a shade off breathless, and he grins lewdly.  
 “Sounds like an euphemism”

“Shut up and fuck me already” she groans as he twists his fingers and bites down on the junction of her neck and shoulder.

He doesn’t comply for several minutes, until he has her on the brink with his fingers and tongue, until she’s sweating and keening.

“Beg” he breathes, eyes bright, and she shakes her head. “Fine.”

He tongues at her nipple and brushes a thumb over her clit, and then pulls back, lips brushing at her collarbone, and takes a moment to look at her. She’s flushed, pupils blown with arousal, lips swollen. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything so badly.

“Beg, Carrie. Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me” she orders, and he shakes his head, sliding his fingers over her sweet spot again.

“That’s not what I call begging, Carrie...”

She looks at him, eyes huge, and the fight goes out of her.

“Please, Peter” she breathes, “Please fuck me. Pretty please.”

It’s hard to know which of them is more relieved when he sinks into her; she swears and hooks a leg around his hip, changing the angle to something that makes him lose his breath.

“Harder” she demands, and he slows to a stop.  
 “Harder what?”

“Please, harder....please, please.”

He slams into her so hard the bedhead smashes into the wall and she gasps, instinctively tightening around him. The second time he does it she lets out a ragged sob, burying her face in his neck, mumbling a litany of prayers and obscenities into his skin. The third time he feels her orgasm, harder than he ever has before; she goes utterly rigid, teeth clamping down on his shoulder, clenching tight around him before she sinks bonelessly back to the bed, breath ragged.

It doesn’t take him long to finish; he’s been on the brink almost since he woke up, but making her beg has been something he swore he would do almost since he first met her, and today seemed like as good as day as any.

She relaxes against him, pliant and exhausted, and kisses his neck.

“Sorry I bit you” she mumbles sheepishly, and he grins.

“I’m not”

They lie in companiable silence for a few minutes before she slides out of bed to use the bathroom and he folds his arms behind his head, enjoying the post-coital glow.

She returns with coffee and the newspaper ten minutes later, willingly curling under his arm. Within five minutes she’s asleep, breathing deep and even, and he feels a surge of...something. Something he can’t identify.  
 He’s changing, he knows, and only part of it is because of her. He’s getting old; he wants to right the mistakes he’s made. He wants this stability, this affection that he’d mocked and scorned as a younger man. He wants a family. No, he thinks, looking at Carrie, nestled comfortably in his arm; he has a family now. 

“I love you” he whispers, trying the words out. They roll over his tongue well. They fit. He waits for the adrenaline rush, for the panic. Nothing. Just a feeling of being in the right place at the right time. Happiness.

*****

A month later, with her father’s blessing, he gets down on one knee while they’re walking in the park and asks her, with more anxiety than he’s ever felt and with a beautiful ring, if she will do him the honour of becoming his wife. She cries, and says yes, and then cries some more, and if his eyes aren’t entirely dry then neither of them will comment on it.

Seven months later they marry in a small service. She wears white and takes Peter’s breath away when she walks down the aise and her father gives her away, and Saul embraces them both at the end, still shaking his head in disbelief.

A year later, red faced, sweating and cursing Peter Quinn to the depths of hell, Carrie gives birth to their first child, Ada Grace; a year later a son follows, with similar fanfare. They name him for Peter’s pre-work name, and tell nobody that that’s how they picked it.

They still fight, and make up, and fight again. Carrie still has minor relapses, particularly during her pregnancy; Peter will always be brooding and walk away from a confrontation which drives her mad. They still work at the CIA and worry individually and together that they’re risking leaving their children alone, and eventually become desk agents with no active duty.

Peter finds himself able to tell her that he loves her, and does it on a regular basis.

And so, through a series of life-changing experiences, emotional upheaval, sex and appalling decision making, it happens that two emotionally stunted workaholic CIA agents somehow manage to find wedded bliss and their happily ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left Kudos and comments and generally supported the fic - it's been so much fun to write. I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as I have :)
> 
> Am more than happy to take prompts for future fics!


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